The death of me
by nerwende90
Summary: "To be honest, I knew from the beginning that this man would be the death of me." John Watson reflects on his relationship with a certain sociopath.
1. Prologue : All the madmen

_'Cause I'd rather stay here_  
 _With all the madmen_  
 _Than perish with the sadmen roaming free_  
 _And I'd rather play here_  
 _With all the madmen_  
 _For I'm quite content they're all as sane as me_

David Bowie, _All the madmen_

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

To be honest, I knew from the beginning that this man would be the death of me.

I met him at a stage of my life when I would have done pretty much anything to stop being bored. I had just gotten out of what my therapist calls a "traumatic experience". The thing with traumatic experiences, with people like me, is that no matter how horrible they are, you miss them when it's over. I know it's sick. I know it's wrong. But it's the way it's always been for me.

Even as a kid I would constantly find ways to make my life more interesting, and so what if it meant putting myself in danger ? I was that sort of kid, you see, that is all nice and polite, but that ends up with torn clothes and skinned knees for running head first into whatever crazy game he'd come up with. It got me in trouble a lot, as you can imagine, because my parents... well, let's just say they were not the most understanding of parents. My sister was a bit like me, though she would usually bail when things got too rough.

But I digress.

The day I met him, I remember my mind was in that bad place again. The place that would whisper that something needed to happen, now. The kind of place that would rather I get hurt, and seriously, than stay still for one more minute. It's like a demon, really. A shadow that keeps hanging around you, makes you ache for something more. Even though you don't know what more is, you can't think of anything else.

It's an idea that infiltrates your mind, quietly at first, but then it starts beckoning louder and louder until you can't hear anything else. It makes the little everyday things your life is made of suddenly seem unbearable. Even the things you enjoy, you end up resenting. The people around you – when there are people around you – feel obnoxious. Little by little, every little fragment of your life becomes annoying. Then you start giving yourself deadlines. If things are still the same in a year, I'm going to go crazy. Then something good happens, and it goes away for a while. Something bad happens, and the countdown rushes to the end line. If things are still the same in six months...

So you probably understand why I couldn't resist the implied offer that came with meeting him. He had fire in his eyes and danger in his steps. But he looked at me for a second and he understood. He never really told me what I was in for but let's face it, I probably would have followed anyway. I know, I know. Self-destructive attraction to danger. John Watson is ready to ignore safety in an attempt to make himself feel alive. Ella Thompson added these words to my file a long time ago.

She doesn't understand, and I don't blame her. When I told her about him – never going into too much detail, obviously – I could tell she was worried. She said it was a good thing that I wasn't alone, that I'd found someone to share my life with, but she thought being around him was dangerous to me. How was I supposed to tell her that that was the point ?

When I moved in with him, things weren't easy at first. He seemed unable to understand the basic notions of emotions and sentiment – and boundaries – but we made do. It felt like a full-time job, really. Keeping the sociopath in check. But we found a rythm and I like to think we got quite close. I like to think he's telling the truth when he talks about his feelings for me. I know I'm sure of my feelings for him.

At this point, you may think I wanted to change him. That I thought I could teach him how to care, how to act around people, how to become more human. You may think that I, as a doctor, just saw a damaged man and tried to fix him. But that's not what happened. I didn't care that he was different. It didn't matter to me the way he acted towards others, or that he sometimes had dark thoughts. I didn't care, I just wanted to be with him. I know, you think it's impossible for me, not to care, but remember that was a different time and a different place. Besides, at the time, he didn't seem so dangerous. He kept me on my toes, sure, but I told myself things would never go too far.

Wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Of course things would go too far. Of course. And you know what ? I think deep down I knew it. I think I wanted them to. And that's probably why I never minded the whole sociopath thing. Who was I to judge, when I was just as messed up as he was ? And the worse part is, when things did change, it was all because of me.

But let me tell you all about it, and please don't interrupt me, because if I stop I can never start up again. I know it will be hard to understand, I'm not asking you to. I'm not looking for excuses, either. I just need to tell you everything. I need to get it off my chest, no matter what the consequences might be. So I'll just tell you my story and leave you to draw your own conclusions and make up your mind about me.

So, here it is. The whole truth.

The story of how I, John Watson, fell in love with James Moriarty.

* * *

 **Hope the twist worked its magic on you, and that you'll want to read more (that's kind of the point of a prologue, anyway).**

 **Thanks for reading, and even more thanks if you review!**

 **nerwende**


	2. Sometimes you can't make it on your own

_You don't have to put up a fight  
You don't have to always be right  
Let me take some of the punches  
For you tonight  
Listen to me now  
I need to let you know  
You don't have to go it alone _

U2, _Sometimes you can't make it on your own_

* * *

 **PART I : JOHN**

I met Jim while we were both still students. We didn't go to the same school, of course. I expect he went to some prestigious institute. I don't know, I never really asked him, oddly enough. I met him at the pub one night, when my mates and I had gone to cool off. Being a med student really takes a toll on both the memory and the nerves, so we would make sure to go out every now and then to let off some steam and keep our sanity. Of course, it might mean getting plastered beyond all recognition, depending on what kind of week you'd had. I wish I could say I was drunk that night, maybe somehow it would constitute a valid excuse. But I'd only had a pint and my mind was clear as ever. I was the only one too, since there's always some kind of unspoken agreement on who would watch the others while they were pissed.

Anyway, at some point, one of them threw his arm around my shoulders and pointed in the general direction of the bar, shouting "Look! Freak's here!" Or at least I think is what he said. I guessed more than anything. The others welcomed this bellow with a bout of earth-shattering laughter. I followed his finger and saw this scrawny looking guy sitting on one of the high stools. His back was towards me, but I could tell he'd heard. Something about the tension in his shoulders and the way his head was slightly bowed. I felt bad for him.

I asked the others who he was, but they all gave me this kind of shrug. "Some weirdo who always looks like he's either goin' to cry or murder ya," one of them said – I think it was Mike Stamford, actually. None of them knew his name or where he went to school. They were making fun of him, but I could tell there was a hint of fear in it. They were calling him names from across the room, things like "nutter", "psycho", "wanker". I tried to shush them but they wouldn't listen, so I started talking about football instead. I've never been a fan myself but they were, and soon they were all arguing about it. I got up and announced that I was getting the next round and no one even paid attention, leaving me completely free to make my way across the room.

The guy they'd made fun of was hunching over the bar, twirling a coin on the smooth surface over and over again. He was staring at it like it was the most important thing in the universe. I purposefully went to stand next to him, put the empty pitcher on the counter and asked for a fresh one. I added, "Oh, and that guy's next drink is on me," pointing at him. It was a lame attempt at making up for the others, I guess. But the guy didn't even look at me. He kept staring at his own hands and scoffed. "I don't need your pity."

His voice sounded so empty, it really freaked me out for a second. I wanted nothing more than to get my order and go back to the others, but I made myself stay there. I'd been called names enough to know how much it could hurt, so I didn't want to leave it at that. Plus I was also a bit offended that my nice gesture had been turned down like that. So instead I said, "Look, I just want to apologize about what happened, that's all. I'm sorry they've been giving you hell."

His fingers stopped the coin short, and he sat perfectly still for a few seconds before slowly turning to look at me. Only his head was moving, the rest of his body seemed frozen in place. His dark eyes were frankly a bit unnerving, I felt like they were boring through my skull. "Why would you apologize when you're the only one who didn't do anything?" he asked softly, looking genuinely puzzled. I had to think about that for a second, but my mind came up blank. He had this way of talking that sounded so intense, it was all-encompassing.

I had to clear my throat before answering. "Well, they're my friends, you know, and..." he kept staring, and I started stammering, "And I-I think... it's not... good." It sounded stupid even to myself, but the guy just smiled. "Good is boring," he said. I had no idea what that meant, and I could feel myself blushing again, so I decided to get flippant as a cover up. "Look, you want that drink or not?" That made him laugh. "Sure," he said.

So I ordered his drink and waited with him. Not really sure why I did that, by the way. The bartender had stuck a full pitcher next to me a couple of minutes before, I could have just paid and left. Instead, I held my hand out to the guy with the dark eyes. "I'm John Watson," I said, "I'm in med school." He stared at my hand for a while, as if he were gauging me by it, but in the end he decided to shake it. "Jim," he said firmly, as though he had just decided what his name was, "Jim Moriarty. I'm in mathematics." That actually impressed me and I think it showed, because Jim smirked at me. I've never been really good at playing it cool, especially when good-looking people stared a me as if they were studying me.

His drink appeared in front of him – or at least that's what it looked like to me – and I paid for it without really checking the amount I gave the bartender. I vaguely heard raised voices to my right, and the next second Jim turned away and went back to twirling his coin. "You friends beckon, "He mumbled. I looked around and saw the whole gang giving me weird looks, some of them holding their arms out as if to say _What the hell are you doing?_ I picked up my pitcher and muttered an "I'll see you around" at Jim. I made my way back to the table, but even today I'm willing to swear anywhere that I heard him say "Thanks for the drink."

I sat back down with my mates and was immediately flooded with questions about why the hell I would talk to "that creep". I wanted to tell them to leave him alone, but I knew it would only have raised their interest in the topic, so once again I took their minds off of him by talking about sports. The conversation picked up again but I wasn't listening, I was still wondering about that strange guy. I tried to look around at him, but when I turned he was gone. All that was left of his presence were an empty glass and a coin standing perfectly still on its side.

I would run into Jim a couple more times before we actually had a full conversation. I saw him at that same pub the next week, but I'd barely been there when he left. A beer I hadn't ordered found its way to my table though. Then I saw him across the street once, and at another time we were in the same line at Tesco's. Even when he didn't look at me I could tell he knew I was there. Something in the way he'd slightly turn my way, or hesitate before walking past me. I couldn't understand it at first, I thought he was avoiding me. He'd paid his debt and now he was acting like we'd never met. It wasn't a first, of course, some people were like that. I guessed he was just a loner So I decided to let him be.

And then one day, at the library, I was looking for an important book for my memoir, and of course I found it on a shelf I couldn't reach. I tried my damndest to get it without climbing on something or worse, asking someone to get it for me. I always found both of these options very humiliating, so I did what most stubborn short people do: I stood on tip-toes and reached as high as I could, getting down for a second before trying again, as if that could change anything.

It was just shy out of my reach and I was silently cursing about the unfair standard for book storage heights when a hand appeared above me, pulled at the book until it slid out enough that it could grab it and take it down. My eyes followed that hand until they locked with the face of its owner : Jim. He gave me a half-smile and held the book out to me. I thanked him, thoroughly embarrassed, but he shrugged. "I'm not very tall myself, I know the feeling." He had another book tucked under his arm along with a notepad. He was obviously planning on working there as well, so I asked him if he wanted to join me at my table. He actually looked startled when I offered, but he came along anyway.

We worked in silence for a few hours, then I had to stop because the words I was reading were starting to dance on their pages. Jim noticed and stopped working as well. I glanced at his notes. " _The binomial theorem._ Is that what your memoir is about?" I asked quite stupidly but really, he wasn't the easiest person to chat with. He nodded, I must have said something like "That's great!", and then it was silent again. He seemed as uncomfortable about that as I was, so he looked around for a second, then looked at my own notes and said, "Yours is about acute coronary syndrom. That's... interesting." It took me a second to realise that he wasn't being sarcastic, that it was just that hard for him to make small talk. That made me smile, really, and I think that's the first time I actually felt something in me surge faintly toward him. I don't know, there was something shy an awkward about him that I found endearing. I asked him if he wanted to go to the pub, and he said yes.

After that we started seeing each other more and more. We'd go to the library to work a few hours together, after which we'd always end up at the pub. Then one day he invited me to see this movie at the cinema, and then I invited him to my birthday. The other guys gave him weird looks, but they wouldn't say anything because they knew I'd stand up for him, and Jim really didn't care about their reactions. We were actually becoming friends, and I could tell he was happy about it. As much as he always said he loved being alone, he had still been a very lonely person, and it was obviously a relief for him to have someone to talk to.

As for me, I had a few friends, but I couldn't have called any of them close. Jim and I were close. Well, I was as close to Jim as you can get, I guess. He would sometimes have these moments, that odd light in his eyes, that dark quality that made him look like he knew a terrible secret he wasn't about to let on. I remember once telling him, as a joke, "I know you. I know your kind." His smile grew strange and he said, "No, you don't." That's the kind of thing he'd say that would make me feel chilled to the bone.

But there were also these moments when you'd talk to him and he would listen intently, looking straight at you like you were the most important thing in the world. Or you'd tell a joke that would catch him off-guard and he'd start laughing whole-heartedly. He still has these moments, actually. This still happens. These are the moments I hold on to when my mind screams at me that I'm just fooling myself, that he's a sociopath and incapable of feeling. If this were true, then there never would have been those moments, and no one will ever convince me that they were fake.

We were in the park near my house when he kissed me for the first time. It has been a warm and sunny day, so we'd decided to take our books and notepads out to work. I was deep into Christopher P. Cannon's _Management of acute coronary syndromes_ when I realized I could feel Jim staring at me. I looked up at him, probably about to make some sort of joke when he leaned in and locked lips with me. I just sat there, unmoving, and after a while he pulled back, looking horrified. "I... I don't know why I did that." he stammered. "You kissed me," I said as if it could have escaped him. He hung his head in shame and nodded. I closed my book, deliberately put it aside, then said, "Do it again." His head whipped up and I think he was suspicious, thinking that maybe I was saying that as a joke or a threat, so I leaned in and kissed him myself. It felt right, it felt good, and at the time there was no reason at all why it shouldn't.

But of course, that didn't last.

* * *

 **Of course it didn't, that would be boring!**

 **Thank you for reading, see you next time!**

 **nerwende**


	3. Waiting to figure it out

_My heart is waiting to figure it out_

 _Throw me something_

 _Help me turn it around_

 _What do we do when we're out of control?_

Butterfly Boucher, _It pulls me under_

* * *

Looking back on it, there are things that Jim would do that would raise a red flag in my head. I chose to ignore that flag most of the time, but it was there nonetheless.

I dragged him to a party once, and when one of the guys got so drunk he fell into the pool, too plastered to fight his way to the surface, I found Jim looking on and laughing as he watched, not even pretending to try to do something about it as everyone else around was frantically running to the rescue.

We would watch slasher movies together and he'd go on and on about how the killer had it wrong and how he'd do it instead, gruesome details included. He once got upset because a real life serial killer had made a mistake and gotten caught by the police. "He called his wife!" he shouted, "He called his fucking wife! Who does that? Why would he call his wife?!" I emitted the idea that he'd probably done it out of sentiment. He blinked at me like I'd grown an extra head then buried his head in his hands. "So disappointing, so disappointing!" he started chanting over and over again until I told him that if he didn't shut the hell up about it I'd leave his house. He looked at me as if he was trying to evaluate how serious I was and, once he'd decided that I might actually do it, he changed the subject and started clinging to me.

Because he could be clingy. I'd often spend the night in his house because, well, he _had_ a house, which definitely beat shared campus dorm rooms. Sometimes I'd get up in the middle of the night because my sleep was terrible back then already and I would go have tea, or work, or read to try to make myself sleepy. When I got back, he'd grab me tight in his sleep and wouldn't let go. After a while I started setting a glass of water and a book next to the bed in advance because it had become impossible for me to leave the bed, as he'd fall asleep with a hand on my chest, arm or shoulder and would automatically hang on at the first sign of movement.

He'd also get very jealous when I talked to other people – the fact that I can potentially be attracted to anyone of either gender didn't help matters, of course – but I ended up telling him that if he kept trying to smother me I'd leave, and he agreed to give me some space. He would still get that strange look in his eyes when my attention was on someone else, but at least he didn't say anything.

He would also have fits sometimes. It didn't have anything to do with me, it's just that his brain would sometimes got into overdrive. Then he'd start talking fast and loud, pacing around, pulling at his hair or punching walls, mumbling about the stupidity of the world, and the pointlessness of life, and _why won't people just think_ , and _why won't they see..._ When that happened, I'd taken to just walk up to him and hold him. It would always take a moment, but eventually he's start hugging back and calming down. I'd feel his heart hammering in his chest, then it would slow down gradually to return to normal. He'd start shaking all over, and I would tell him everything was alright and I was there for him. I really meant it at the time.

Dating Jim was never easy. In fact, every time someone asks me how I can deal with Sherlock, I'm tempted to say that I've had practice. But in time I learned to cope with this side of him and to pull him out of these dark moods. I was the only person in the world who could calm him down, ground him. I thought I'd found a rhythm, a way of reaching him when he was too far gone. I thought in time I'd get to the bottom of this strange condition of his. I can see now how presomptuous I was.

Jim was always beyond my help, mostly because he didn't _want_ my help. Wrong emphasis : he didn't want my _help_. He wanted my presence, he wanted my attention, he wanted, yes, my love. But he didn't want to be helped, cured or saved. He wanted to be accepted as he was. Knowing this now, I realize I should have handled things differently. That's not to say I should have just accepted everything from him. But I definitely didn't react the way I should have.

One thing I loved about Jim is how protective he could be. I defended him in front of the other guys, but if one of them started to turn against me Jim would bare his proverbial teeth. I always managed to keep him from actually picking up a fight with others because a) I didn't want him to get in trouble for my sake, and b) I could hold my own, thank you very much. But there was one fight I couldn't keep him out of, and that's the one that ruined everything.

Now before I get into that, a little backstory. I didn't have a nice, guarded childhood. When my sister was about one, my parents got into a fight over my father's drinking habits. This resulted in my mother slamming the front door behind her and my father drinking himself to a near-comatose state at home while Harry slept upstairs. My mother, for her part, walked into the first bar she could find, chatted up a man and shagged him in a bathroom stall. She came back home the next day and my parents were both suitably sad and contrite for a while, that is until they found out she was pregnant. With me, in case that wasn't obvious. She cried and told my father the truth, and when I was born his name was on my birth certificate, as if nothing had happened.

You may think they intended to forget about it and move on. You would be wrong.

Before I could even walk or talk properly my father would make it clear that I was a mistake, that I wasn't his son and that he wished I'd never existed. I grew up bombarded with insults and mockery. He contented himself with the verbal abuse for a good eight years until one day, while his friends were around, I tripped and knocked down a lamp. He walked up to me, slapped me across the face hard enough to make me fall, then grabbed me by the hair and shoved my head into the broken pieces, shouting "Look what you've done!" while his drunk friends laughed and cheered. After that, the punches flew as hard and as frequently as the insults.

My mother knew and saw, but she never did anything to stop it. I must have been about ten when I tearfully asked her why she let him do this to me, and she said that I was her mistake, a product of her own weakness. She had no right to tell her poor husband, the innocent victim, what he should or shouldn't do with me. Harry of course, was too scared that he'd turn to her if she said anything, so she stayed out of it. I think it's one of the reasons she's a drinker now. I think she still feels guilty about never trying to help me.

It should be no surprise that as soon as I turned eighteen, I left the house without looking back. I'd been working a student job since I was sixteen and saving up the money, and I'd gotten a job as an assistant at a GP's practice to help pay for my tuition. It wasn't easy but I got by. The problem is, when you come from an abusive household, you can't always cut ties completely. They always have this hold on you, no matter how much you tell yourself you never want to see them again.

One year, one of my grandfathers – who had no idea how my parents treated me, no one did – had been surprised I hadn't attended a familial gathering for so long and said he hoped to see me for Christmas. My father of course ordered me to go and I, thinking I would be fine if I just spent the evening and then got back to campus, gave in and went. I came home the next day with a black eye. I hadn't been quick enough to answer the unavoidable "How come we haven't seen you in so long?" question asked by an unsuspecting aunt, and my father made sure I remembered never to give anyone a reason to suspect him again.

When Jim saw my face upon my return, his eyes turned completely black. He asked me what had happened and, after trying to dismiss it, I finally broke down and ended up telling him everything. I had always been bullied and threatened into silence by my own parents, but right there and then I let the dam break as Jim sat there and listened. I told him how they hurt me, how I'd felt alone all this time.

And of course, as people do in such situations, I let my anger get the best of me, saying how I hated them and how I wished they were dead. I cried my way through most of it, and when I was done Jim hugged me. It was the first time he initiated a hug. He told me everything was going to be alright, that he was there, that he'd make sure no one would hurt me again. I believed him. I felt relieved. I felt safe.

A week later Harry called me in tears. The brakes of our parent's car had failed and they had plunged to their death at the bottom of a pit. I don't really remember what I told her, probably some commonplace words of comfort. As soon as she started sounding like herself again, I hung up, my mind filled with static as I turned to look at Jim. I didn't even need to ask. I knew what had happened. I confronted him about it, and he just smiled at me – _beamed_ at me – and said, "You're welcome."

I blinked at him once, twice, then the yelling started. I stood there, gesturing frantically and hurling abuse while he sat there in silence. He seemed genuinely surprised at my outburst. He honestly didn't understand why I was so angry while he'd obviously done me a huge favor. That's when I realized Jim wasn't simply a bit odd, he was completely and utterly mad. He didn't see the good or bad in situations, he only saw problems and solutions. A true mathematician.

I took a steadying breath and asked him, as calmly as I could, if he'd ever done anything like that before. He looked away, thinking, and then announced, "Five." I felt sick, yet I pushed and asked him about those five other people. He never mentioned the names, but he had no problem telling me the stories.

The first one was one of his classmates from when he was eleven – _eleven!_ – who Jim poisoned because the kid had bullied him. The second and third ones were his next door neighbours, five years later. They had threatened to get his whole family evicted and Jim had arranged for their beloved television set to implode in the middle of the night and when they tried to escape, they found the doors and windows blocked. The fourth victim was his own grandmother. She had found out about his homosexuality and was going to tell his parents, so he pushed her down the stairs. And finally, he drowned one of his cousins who suspected his implication in their grandmother's death and told him she would go to the police.

He told me about all this as if he was telling me mere childhood stories. The horror, fear and disgust that I felt must have shown of my face, because Jim started to get angry himself. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he said, "What do these people matter to you?"

I shook my head, wondering how the hell I was going to make him understand. When I spoke, it was barely above a whisper, "You're a murderer.

\- Thanks for the update, sweetie," he said, actually laughing at me, "But I was aware of that fact.

\- You killed my parents," I growled, hating the way he was patronizing me.

He huffed in annoyance, "You said you wanted them dead, I fixed it for you. What more do you want?

\- I didn't mean it!" I shouted, my hands flying up to clutch at my hair in despair, "I was upset, I was angry! That's just the kind of stuff you say when you're angry!

\- Well, careful what you wish for!"

I told him I'd go to the police, but he just laughed at me again. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," he said, knowing full well that I hated to be called that, "What are you going to tell them? That I killed your parents because you asked me to?

\- I never asked you to kill them!" I shouted stubbornly at him, "I never wanted you to do that!"

He shrugged. "What other reason could I have to do it? What do you think a judge would think of it? I've never even met these people!" I was horrified, because I knew he was right. If I went to the police, I'd probably end up being arrested as an accomplice. Jim smiled triumphantly, knowing he'd won this fight. He put his arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, "You are the only thing in the world that I care about, John Watson. But if I go down, you're coming with me."

* * *

 **Things are getting pretty serious here, what is John to do now?  
**

 **Thank you for reading, see you next time!**

 **nerwende**


	4. Another kind of fix

_'Round and around I go  
Addicted to the numb, livin' in the cold  
The higher, the lower, the down, down, down  
Sick of being tired and sick  
And ready for another kind of fix  
The damage is damning me down, down, down _

Adam Lambert, _Runnin'_

* * *

Between the exams, the internships and the memoir, it wasn't hard to avoid Jim. We were both very busy, and I still hadn't made up my mind as to what I'd do. I know, I should have run to the police, consequences be damned. But I was a coward. Not for myself, I didn't really care what would happen to me. No, there was still that voice in my mind that would whisper that Jim had issues, that it wasn't his fault, that he just didn't realise what he was doing. Some part of me was still reluctant to have him punished for what he'd done. Probably the doctor part. To me Jim was sick, and a sick person couldn't be held responsible for what their illness made them do. Could they ?

I considered telling him to get help, but I knew he would never go for it. I could either turn him, and myself, in, or I could just bury my head in the sand. I dove into work and let it consume me. I expected Jim to pursue me at the time. I thought he'd be upset that I was avoiding him and show up at the dorm or call me every five minutes. But he must have sensed that something was different, because he didn't even try to contact me. We still saw each other every now and then, but never long enough to have an actual conversation. And you wanna know what the damndest thing is ? I missed him. I would never have admitted it at the time, but I felt his absence like a hole in my chest. You don't cut someone as intense as Jim out of your life without bearing the scar.

We both graduated roughly around the same time, then it was time for celebration. That's how he found his way back into my life. One evening the guys in my school held a graduation party, which I was incredibly thankful for. What better way to release tension and empty your brain than alcohol, debilitating music and maybe a fling or two ? It worked rather well for me and I was downing my fifth beer – in one hour, I might add – when suddenly, Jim appeared in the doorway.

I watched him cross the dancefloor and make his way up to me, surrounded by everybody else's incredulous looks. Before that could register, his arms had been wrapped around me and I felt his breath caress my ear as he whispered, "Now I've got you all to myself."

That threw a chill down my spine, though I wasn't sure what the feeling behind it was. Fear or excitement ? I didn't know anymore. All I knew is that as much as I wanted to resent him, I had still missed him. I don't know what that says about me. There has always been this contrast, this opposition, this ambivalent feeling I can't quite figure out. They say there's a fine line between love and hate, and I know that better than anyone. Sometimes I wasn't even sure which one was stronger. I guess my twisted childhood didn't help with that.

But the thing is, hate is still a feeling, and a strong one at that. You don't hate things you don't care about, right ? As it was, I was tired, confused and admitedly quite drunk that night, so the two forces melted together until I couldn't tell them apart anymore. All I knew was that the second he walked in, the first thing I felt was relief, and the second was _need_.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. But one thing I remember clearly is waking up in his bed the next morning with his arm across my chest and our clothes lying on the floor.

Coming from an abusive household, I'd long since learned how to keep my head down and pretend things were alright. As the realisation that I needed Jim sank in, I fell into a sort of resignated acceptance. For one foolish moment, I thought I could do it again, fall back into the old routine. I thought Jim needed me and I didn't want to abandon him.

So I did what I thought I had to do : I moved in with him when he offered and pretended nothing was wrong when they were. His eyes didn't seem as deep and intense as they used to, they just looked dead to me. He wouldn't look at me the same way, either. His outbursts and his fits of rage, the ones I used to be able to soothe, had a renewed grip on him, and I didn't know how to break him free. It didn't feel like soothing a child anymore, it felt like taming a wild animal.

He obviously sensed that things were different, too. There was that time when he saw something on TV and he shouted at the screen. I flinched so hard I dropped my tea. He looked at the broken mug on the floor, then looked up at me. I had spent enough of my childhood staring disappointment and disgust in the face to recognize their icy glare. I cleaned up the mess without a word, then took my coat and rushed out of there.

I don't know how long I walked and I don't know how I got there, but I ended up in the very park where he'd kissed me for the first time, the one we always referred to as simply, The Park. I sat in the grass and started crying, unable to stop myself. I didn't know what to do, I just knew I couldn't go on like this. I hadn't escaped my abusive household to fall back into a relationship that scared me

Now don't get me wrong, Jim never lifted a finger on me. But he terrified me all the same. I had to leave, to get away from me. But the demon inside me reared its ugly head and told me that I wouldn't last long before running back to him, back to my destructive ways. If I couldn't get my fix, as Sherlock calls it, odds were I would either kill myself or surrender completely to Jim's darkness.

That's when I first started seriously considering joining the army. I'd flirted the idea before, when I was still in high school, but I was so focused on being a surgeon that I didn't give it a second thought. Now it felt like the perfect solution. If I became an army doctor and trained as a soldier, I would be send to front which would turn my unhealthy need for danger into something positive, and Jim couldn't very well follow me up to the battlefield.

The idea quickly turned into a plan, and I spent the next couple of months doing everything I needed to do to make it happen. I was careful and never told Jim anything. I don't think he suspected anything either. Like I said, something had changed between us and he wasn't as clingy as he used to be. He seemed to stop caring about what I did altogether, something I wouldn't have been able to bear a few months prior. I could spend the entire day out and then crawl in bed with him in the middle of the night and he wouldn't say anything. I honestly don't know what he was up to at the time, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. That's been the dynamics of our relationships for years, actually. Our motto. _I don't want to know_.

Then one day came the letter that let me know I was being drafted. In the months it had taken me to make it happen, it had become less of a means to an end and more of a real motivation, so I was genuinely excited when I got the reply.

It took me much longer than it should have to notice that the envelope had been open before I even got my hands on it. When it dawned on me, I went into the bedroom to find Jim sitting on the bed, cross-legged and back stiff as a rod. "Care to explain ?" is the only thing he said to me, and my brain kindly supplied me with the image of my father, belt in hand, forcing me to tell him why I deserved to be punished.

But I clenched my fists and decided I wasn't going to give in to Jim. Not this time. So I told him everything. How I'd applied months before, ho I'd taken the tests and gone through the training and that apparently I'd gotten in. It was just stating fact, much easier than giving reasons.

Jim didn't move an inch through all this. Then he said, calm and collected, "They say you have to report for duty in two weeks." I nodded. He took a deep breath and I braced myself for the worst. The abused kid in me wanted to run and hide, but the premices of a soldier's instincts made me stay and steal myself for whatever was coming. However, nothing could have prepared me for his reaction.

He started laughing.

He laughed to hard the entire bed was shaking. Tears started coming out of his eyes, his face turned red, he was shaking his head in mirth. I had never seen him laugh so hard and so earnestly before. It was terrifying. I just stood there, waiting for him to stop. Eventually he did, wiped at his eyes and said, "You know, you could have just said you wanted a break." That made him giggle again, but it also made me mad.

"You never would have accepted that," I think is what I told him. Well, _spat at him_ would be a more accurate description.

He smiled and nodded. "True, true enough." His voice shook and I could tell he was seconds away from another roaring laughter and I really got angry this time, because how dare he laugh at me after pushing me to this. I demanded to know what was so funny, and he shrugged. "You," he said, a grin still playing on his lips, "Just you."

That was the first time I actually considered hitting him. I pictured it very vividly, my hand clenching into a fist and crashing into his jaw, the satisfying crack I'd hear, him falling over backwards, the smile leaving his face to be replaced with surprise or maybe even hurt. It all felt so tempting. So tempting in fact that I ended up crossing my arms, to avoid acting on it. Something told me that he would have liked nothing more, and I didn't want him to win this time.

He took that for the prompting it was and explained, "You've been acting like a wounded puppy ever since you heard that I have killed a few people that had gotten in my way. It reached a point where you couldn't stand it anymore, so what do you do ? You decide to enroll in an industry that kills people for a living." He sniggered at me, "How very coherent of you."

I opened my mouth to answer, but closed it when I realised I couldn't beat his logic. No matter how I put it, it never changed the fact that he was right. Of course I wasn't joining for the killing part, but at the end of the day it was still happening, and I was still enabling it. But I stubbornly reassured myself with the age-old argument of, _but that's different._

I never could win a battle of wit with him, so I didn't even try. I just shrugged and said, "Believe what you want. I leave in two weeks."

That actually wiped the smile off his face, and I might have enjoyed it if it hadn't shaken me to the core. I knew I'd hit a spot. Remember what I said about love and hate ? Jim would rather be hated than ignored. Why do you think he's been making a big show of his crimes ? He wants attention no matter what. If you stop paying him any, if you stop caring at all, that's when he gets mad.

He got up off the bed and seemed to shake himself before speaking in a low, dangerous tone. "Yes, Johnny, we've all had a good laugh. But the joke's already been stretched thin. We both know you're not going anywhere." He swayed his head from side to side like a snake – the first time I've ever seen him do that – "Now let's cut out the nonsense and go eat." He started walking toward the door, obviously trying to pronounced the subject closed.

But I wasn't done. It was the first time I'd managed to knock him down a peg, and that only egged me on. "I don't recall asking for your permission," I said, stopping him dead in his tracks. We stood there for a moment, him facing the door, his shoulders tensing as I looked on with a face set in a calm I didn't feel.

He barked out a cruel laugh, "Well, look who's found a spine! Months and months of silent submission - which by the way, I'm not really into, to be honest - and now you come back with this big attitude." He turned back to stare me dead in the eye, and I could really imagine that this was the last thing those five people had seen before death. "You came crawling back, John. I didn't sequestrate you, I asked if you wanted to live with me and you said yes."

I cocked my head to the side, forcing a defiant smile on my lips. "I said yes because I was afraid of what you'd do it I didn't. But you know what, _Jimmy_?" I stepped closer to him, "You don't scare me anymore."

He stayed perfectly still, staring daggers at me, but I stood my ground, refusing to give in. In the end, he's the one who broke the silence. "You know what, John? Fine. It's fine. Go on and play toy soldier. Go murder people and pretend you're doing it for a good cause. Go get shot and _die alone_ ," he walked up to stand impossibly close to me, his every word laced with venom, "But if by some miracle you make it back alive, and you end up the broken shell of a man every soldier eventually becomes..." here the corner of his mouth curled in a sickening grin, "Don't come crying to me."

And that's the last time we talked for a very long time. He stormed out of the flat after his tirade and didn't come back that night. I fell asleep waiting for him, and when I woke up all his stuff had disappeared from the house. Like he was never there. So I spent the next two weeks telling myself he was wrong and I was better off without him. I sorted through my things, knowing I would never go back to this house, gave away most of it and packed the rest. Then I reported to the British Army and started my new life as an army surgeon.

* * *

 **Writing Jim Moriarty is intense, I'll tell you that.**

 **I have no idea how the procedure do get into the army works, so forgive me if it's unrealistic. I tried to keep it vague for a reason.**

 **Thank you for reading, more soon!**

 **nerwende**


	5. Blood on your face, blood in my eyes

_Last time I saw you, we had just split in two_

 _You were looking at me, I was looking at you_

 _You had a way so familiar, but I could not recognize_

 _Cause you had blood on your face, I had blood in my eyes_

Hedwig and the Angry Inch, _The origin of love_

* * *

I won't bore you with my military carreer. I was trained as a surgeon and then as a soldier, which meant I could be sent to front instead of being stuck at the clinic. I needed the action of the battlefield, so that suited me best. Truth be told I was looking for a purpose, and if my purpose was to die trying to save others, so be it. Better that than being a sociopath enabler. Sherlock once called me a martyr looking for a cause, and I guess he wasn't entirely wrong.

Harry was about as overjoyed at the prospect of me going off to war as Jim had been, but at least she didn't try to stop me. I think she knew I needed it. She made me promise to write to her as often as possible, hugged me, told me she loved me, and let me go. Simple as that. The very pathetic part of my brain wondered why it couldn't have been like that with Jim. Of course, I knew why. _That's_ the pathetic part. By then I'd picked up a few things from him when it come to muzzling your own feelings, so I steeled myself and tried to prepare for the chaos that was to come.

There's no describing what it's like to step into the battlefield for the first time. There's just no word for it. It was brutal, gut-wrenching, visceral. It took me a while to find my footing, but eventually I managed. Upon meeting me, Mycroft said that I missed the war. I missed being needed, I missed feeling like I was making a difference and yes, I missed the danger.

But I certainly don't miss the fear, the blood and the feeling that you're trying to shovel snow in the middle of a storm. You might end up clearing the way a little bit, but soon more snow would come and your previous work was irrelevant. Plus there's always the chance that the wind might blow harder and the pile you'd managed to save would crumble. That's what being an army surgeon is like. Hell, that's what being a doctor is like, most of the time.

But on the battlefield it's so, so much worse. There's blood, there's screaming, there's the constant risk of getting shot or blown up while you're trying to do your job. And of course, there's the occasional choice you have to make because you can't save everyone. Sometimes you have to leave the young lad with his guts hanging out and his whole life fading from ahead of him to save the old grizzled officer with a bullet hole in his hand. It's never easy. You don't get used to it, and you certainly don't get over it.

But, after years of being called a failure and making futile attempts to help a man who didn't want to be helped, I was finally doing some good. I never felt like a hero, mind. It was my job. But I was good at it, and I had enough rage in me to keep me going. I've seen men break down, I've seen others shoot themselves to be sent home. I even once ran after a man who had raced through a mined area until he got exactly what he wanted : he stepped over a landmine. I walked out of this experience with a gash on my right cheekbone and persistent nightmares that lasted for weeks. Major Sholto yelled at me that day, telling me I'd been reckless to pursue the man in the first place. What if _I_ had stepped on a landmine ? I realized that the thought hadn't occured to me. I had a reputation for being reckless when trying to save someone. And I would frequently get yelled at, because "What the hell are we gonna do if our bleedin' medic kicks off ?!"

But the harsh truth was this : _I_ didn't really care if I lived or died. What did I have to go home to ? An alcoholic sister and an erratic, psychotic ex-boyfriend. These men had caring families and a bright future. In my mind there was no question that they should always come first. As a result, I think "You're gonna get yourself killed one day, Watson" is the phrase I've heard most often in my three years in Afghanistan. So when one day a bullet went through my scapula and exited through my clavicule, shattering both bones and permanently damaging the nerves in between while I was kneeling over a fallen soldier to try to patch him up, it wasn't really a surprise to anyone.

It did put things in perspective though. As I lay there, doing my best to stay awake while the others tried frantically to keep me alive, all I could think of was Jim. I didn't want to think about him. Hell, I'd managed to avoid thinking about him for the better part of those three years, but as I felt myself slip away all I could think about was that I wanted him with me. I remembered his harsh words and realized how right he had been about me. I was no better than him. I lied when I told Sherlock that the last thing I thought while I was dying was "Please God let me live." God knows in the end I couldn't form a coherent enough thought. All my brain had room for at the time was one syllable, going round and round my brain as everything else seemed to fall away : _Jim._

My heart stopped for exactly three minutes and forty-five seconds. They somehow managed to start it back up again, but I was still in a coma. They stabilized me and sent me back home, and the odds were against me waking up again. But three days after I got back in London, I did. I was disoriented and pumped full of enough painkillers to feel like John Lennon circa 1967. But one thing was perfectly clear to me, even though it was easily the most improbable thing in the room. Jim Moriarty was sitting at my bedside.

Clad in an incredibly expensive looking suit, he was hunching over with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at me. I waited for the fog to clear a little before adressing him. I don't mean just the painkillers. I had no idea what I felt just then. Some part of me was aching to reach out and touch him, make sure he was really there, then hold on tight and never let go. But there was also that part that kept whispering in my ear about the things Jim had done. The moment of clarity from before was long gone, and all that was left was the memory of his confession, of the crazed look in his eyes that night, and the knowledge of his true nature.

I must have sat there like that for a while because he huffed impatiently and sat back in his chair, looking bored out of his mind. "Are you really there this time ?" he asked me, and my sluggish brain couldn't quite figure out what he meant, so I said nothing. "You've woken up five times in the last twelve hours," he said, "Only for a few seconds and then you went back to sleep. Not only was it rude, but frankly it was also quite dull."

I tried talking but my throat was too dry and I ended up coughing. Surprisingly enough, he got up, filled a glass of water and helped me drink it. When I was done, I looked up at him and said, "I'm sorry I got in the way of your I-told-you-so." I was secretly proud I'd been able to deliver that line with just enough harshness to get the point across.

He didn't acknowledge my efforts, though. All he did was bury his hands in his pockets and start pacing. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose," he said without looking at me. "You got yourself your very own case of axillary nerve dysfunction. I don't suppose I need to explain to you what it entails ?" I took it for the rethorical question it was, and after a few seconds he went on, "You are now officially damaged goods as far as the army is concerned, and you've ruined your chances of ever becoming a surgeon. When you're assigned a therapist, make sure to mention that when they try to tackle your self-destructive tendencies. You must be a study case in that area."

And just like that, he got me angry again. What can I say, the man has a talent. I struggled to get a grip on my thoughts and summoned as much strength as I could to channel it in my voice. "If you're here to gloat and act like a dick, you can leave. I'm really not in the mood right now."

He stopped dead in his tracks and looked sharply at me. He didn't say anything, he was just staring. I tried to hold his gaze, to guess what he was thinking. But it was clearly a losing game, and in the end I couldn't take it anymore. I said the first thing that came to mind, which was to ask him what he'd been up to. His lips curled into a smile. "You don't really want to know."

I must have had some sort of facial twitch because he chuckled and flung himself dramatically back into the chair. "Three years is a long time, John. I've been rather busy." He looked up at the ceiling as if grasping for words. "I've started up my own business, actually."

What do you answer to that ? I went for a joke, "I guess it doesn't involve mathematics ?"

That made him laugh before he could stop himself. "Not really, no." he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe how stupid I was.

I was startled by the change in the man. Don't get me wrong, Jim had never been the warmest person in the world, but now he was colder than ever. And I wasn't exactly used to him being cruel. Not to me.

But it wasn't long before I could feel myself growing increasingly sleepy, so I decided to get to the point before going under again. "Why are you here, Jim ?"

My eyes started closing on their own accord, but I distinctly heard him say, "Isn't that what people do ? Visit their injured boyfriends in the hospital ?"

I snapped my eyes open, too stunned to feel tired anymore. "'Boyfriends' ?"

He shrugged. "Isn't that the term anymore ? I guess you could say 'partners', but I always thought that sounds so cold, I mean it's not like we work together."

He was rambling, as he often does. I couldn't believe my ears. "Jim," I said catiously, "We broke up. Before I left...

\- We had a fight before you left. Couples fight.

\- You killed my parents !

\- Not that again..." he moaned dramatically, making a face.

I laughed incredulously. Honestly, he was acting like I was nagging him about doing the bloody dishes ! "You're a murderer !" I shouted, for lack of better argument.

He laughed. "Darling, from what I hear, you've killed a lot more people than I have."

I shook my head, both in disbelief and to fight off the drowsiness. "Jim," I said, as firmly as I could, "I'm not coming back with you."

He sat there unnmoving, and for a moment I thought I'd broken him. I was tempted to snap my fingers in his face or poke his arm, just to see if he'd react. At long last he blinked, and snarled, all controlled anger. "And here I'd gotten you a present. It's in your duffle bag, if you still want it. I'm afraid you're going to have to keep it. I lost the receipt."

He chuckled darkly to himself as if he'd just made a joke only he could understand. He got up, made his way to the door but stopped at the last second to turn to me. "Good luck making it on your own, John. It's going to be a hell of a change for you, getting through life without following someone around like a puppy." It was such a cheap shot that I didn't even grace it with an answer. He waited for one though, but when it never came he left the room.

I forgot about his mentions of a present until the day I was discharged. I opened my duffle bag and shoved the civilian clothes aside to see, only to hurriedly put them back on top of the gun I found there. I still don't know how he managed to smuggled my gun all the way from Kandahar. I asked him since, but he just smiled knowingly at me and said "That would be telling." I don't think he would have done it if he'd known how hard I'd have to fight my instincts to turn that gun on myself in the following months.

* * *

 **Well, John's back from war, so you know what's coming... Or do you?**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **nerwende**


	6. The pretender

_What if I say I'm not like the others?_

 _What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?_

 _You're the pretender_

 _What if I say I will never surrender?_

The Foo Fighters, _The Pretender_

* * *

You know what comes next so I'll spare you the details. And if you _don't_ know, well, you can read about most of it on my blog. Rehabilitation, therapy, psychosomatic injury, more therapy, release, even more therapy... I felt exactly the same way I'd felt when I first met Jim a lifetime ago. Lonely, dejected and worst of all, bored. Again came the mental russian roulette of "something needs to happen now or else." Then of course I ran into Mike Stamford, who introduced me to one of his mates, who would become my flatmate and best friend, Sherlock Holmes. I must say the rush of the next fourty-eight hours was exactly what I needed. I'd never felt more alive, my stupid psychosomatic limp was gone, and I'd forgotten all about my past worries.

That is until, at the end of the case, Sherlock, a.k.a. the new mad genius in my life, started smiling at no one in particular. I had a brief flash of paranoia, so I asked him what was so funny. Then the answer fell like a ton of bricks : "Moriarty." I covered up the fact that my heart stopped for a second with the first thing that came to mind, which turned out to be "What's Moriarty?" I can't tell you how relieved I was when the answer I received was "I've absolutely no idea." It felt as a stay of execution.

So as it turns out, Jim _had_ been busy. It took all my willpower not to show any of the anger I felt. My mind started doing that thing again when it screamed several different things at me. This time it was "Tell Sherlock!" and "Stay out of this!" I was relatively surprised to hear another voice whispering "Call Jim." But I refused to listen to it. I decided to lay low. I thought maybe this was some sort of sick game Jim was trying to play with me. Or rather, to play me with, you know what I mean? I thought if I just ignored him he would eventually give up.

Then came the case I called _The Blind Banker_. Things had quieted down, I'd gotten a new job, I'd found a girlfriend... It's funny, by the way, how when you tell people you're not gay, they automatically assume it means you're straight, like there's nothing in between. Every time. But bi-erasure's another debate for another day.

All that matters is, I thought I'd managed to get that perfect balance of adventure and domesticity I seeked. That of course was before the Chinese mafia mistook me for a certain Sherlock Holmes, kidnapped me and threatened to murder my girlfriend in front of me. Good times. I didn't know it at the time, but Jim was behind the whole case. I know it now because he told me himself – God forbid Sherlock would have let me know. Jim said he'd never meant for me to get caught in it, and frankly I can't hold him responsible for the incompetence of his employees. You'd think the bloody Chinese mafia would at least double-check their informations before threatening to shoot or empale people... Sorry, he rubs off on me sometimes. The point is, when he heard that they'd kidnapped and hurt _me_ , he had General Shan killed. I know I shouldn't feel grateful for that, but I still kind of do.

The next big case, though, _The Great Game_ ,is when I knew I'd been a fool to think I could ever get anywhere near normalcy. I'm not a genius, I don't see a problem and automatically find its solution. And I had done such a good job at shoving the memory of what Jim had told me deep, deep inside a dark corner of my brain that I didn't connect the dots between Carl Powers and the classmate Jim had killed when he was eleven. It is true that I could have helped with the whole Jim Moriarty hunt. But I'd decided to stay out of it and I stuck to it. I didn't help, but I didn't hinder either. I just pretended I didn't know anything. I'm told it's not that much of a stretch.

Anyway, my mind was miles away from Jim when Molly came into the lab that day then introduced us to her new boyfriend... Jim. I mean, I'd read Molly's blog and seen comments by a guy named Jim, but what were the chances that her Jim was _my_ Jim? I was so shocked I didn't even find anything to say, and then it was too late to say anything. I was also morbidly curious as to what he was up to, so I just played along and pretended I didn't notice he was wearing the same watch as me.

Let me tell you why this is relevant: for our first Christmas together we ended up gifting each other the same watch. I have no idea how it happened, especially since he bought mine first so I know he hadn't done it on purpose. It had made us laugh to no end at the time and he even worked out the very slim odds of it happening – only Jim Moriarty could do complex probability calculations for fun. We ended up exchanging watches, "just like wedding rings" as he'd said. Proof that we belonged to each other. I only still wore mine because it was the only one I owned, but I knew he was basically baiting me.

I wasn't goint to rise to it, though. _Stay out of it, stay out of it_. So I acted like I'd never seen him before and he acted like he didn't even notice I was there. I did give him a discreet kick when he shoved past me to go stand next to Sherlock because old habits die hard and I still felt the need to let him know he was being rude. As soon as I could do so discreetly, I texted him _What the hell are you doing?,_ but he never replied. Not that I expected him to.

Then the game got more serious. I thought – no, I told myself – that the bombs were fake and it was just psychological torture. Still not great, but at least not murder. Denial, denial. And then he blew up that old lady and I knew he'd gone out of control. I sent him text after text, tried to call him as often as I could get away with, to no avail. But when I heard that kid's voice on the phone, I couldn't bury my head in the sand anymore.

Several times I went to tell Sherlock everything, but his attitude of indifference angered me. I thought he didn't care, and for a moment I thought he was like Jim, only with more self-righteous airs. I got mad at him, mad at Jim, and mostly mad at myself for getting in this situation. So I yelled at Sherlock and almost stopped trying to help altogether, but then I realized that this was how things had gotten this bad in the first place.

I was crazed with guilt. I needed to do something. So I sent Jim another text, telling him I wanted to see him. _That_ got his attention. I gave the excuse of going to Sarah's and left. A taxi met me at the corner of the street. When I got in one of the men there blindfolded me and a few moments later I was standing in a pool, Jim in front of me. I made it a point not to look at his tie – a birthday present from me from a lifetime ago – and he gave me a cold and professional glare. I knew he was acting like he didn't know me for my sake, and again I was grateful for that. After a bit of typical villain speech, he sent his goons away so we could talk.

As soon as we were alone, he grinned. "Not bad, huh?" he said, looking actually proud of himself. "Thanks for not saying anything in the lab by the way, I knew I could count on you." And then he punctuated that with an actual wink. Honestly.

"I didn't do it for you." is all I could say, but the knowing smile I got in response told me he was aware of that.

"Your boyfriend blew my cover, though," he said absentmindedly, "Molly freaked out on me and accused me of being gay.

\- You _are_ gay," I said before I could stop myself, "And you were being even more obvious about it than usual."

He laughed at that. "Not everybody can play both fields, darling. I needed to be inconspicuous." He huffed in annoyance. "Weeks of silly flirting and putting up with her sickly sweet movies and shopping only to have that git spoil it all.

\- Yeah, I read her blog," I said, chuckling despite myself, "I can't believe she got you to watch _Glee_.

\- Don't remind me," he said, shuddering dramatically.

I sobered up, wondering how the hell we were having this conversation in the middle of this insanity. But at least I'd connected with him, and I naively thought that it would help me convince him. Yes, I'm that deluded.

"So, that game of yours," I said as casually as possible, trying to subtly get to the point, "Don't you think it's gone far enough? I mean, a woman was killed, Jim."

He swayed his head from side to side, as if physically rolling the thought around in his head. "No, no, no, no, no, John, don't be dull, not you," he all but whined like a petulant child, "Five pips, sweetie. There has to be five pips.

\- But why?" I raised my voice there, my frustrations coming up full force, "Why are you doing this, Jim? What's the end game?"

He turned away from me and started pacing the width of the pool. I swear, I hate it when he walks away from me when I talk to him. "What do you think it is, Johnny-boy?" he sing-songed, emphasizing the horrible nickname, "I want to play with your new boyfriend.

\- Sherlock's not my boyfriend," I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

Jim whipped around, "Really?

\- Really. He's not interested and I don't like him that way. We're friends."

Jim looked pensive for a while, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I don't like him. I want him dead." I clenched my fists, reminding myself that there were armed men just outside the door and that strangling my ex-boyfriend right now would be a poor choice, tempting though it may be. "Look," I said, "What will it take for you to put an end to this madness?"

Jim's smile got predatorial. "Oh darling, I'm so glad you asked," he said, walking up to me to entertain the suspense. "You get to be my fifth pip."

I took a step back, startled. "Are you seriously telling me you want to strap a bomb to me?"

He laughed, "Don't be silly John, I'd never do that to you." He was talking to me as if I was a child, and I hated him for it. "I want to strap a _fake_ bomb to you. And I'll even have people point harmless laser pointers at you for good measure. Gotta go all in for Sherlock Holmes, you know? Then I'll give you an earpiece and you'll have to repeat everything I say to you."

I couldn't believe he was really asking me this. "What if I decide to give the game away?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"One of the laser pointers will be attached to an actual rifle," Jim explained matter-of-factly, "And the man holding it will have orders to target only Sherlock. If you try to go off script, the game ends prematurely. Simple as that.

\- Why would I agree to that?" I asked in a desperate attempt to find another way out.

But of course he'd anticipated that one as well. "Then the game continues, and whoever gets hurt, it'll be on you." His grin widened, "You didn't think I'd forgive that easily, did you?"

He'd tricked me again. I didn't know who I was more angry at just then, me or him? One of his henchmen popped his head back in : "Boss, Holmes is coming." Jim nodded at him, the man left, and Jim turned back to me. "So what's it gonna be, John?"

What else could I have done? I let him strap that fake bomb on me – I was worried he might have lied to me, but as soon as the vest was on me I could tell the bomb wasn't real. It worked from a distance, but from up close a trained eye could easily tell the difference. Then Jim put a parka over it for good measure, stuck an earpiece in my ear, made a comment about how adorable I looked in a parka – which I chose to ignore – and left. It wasn't long before I heard Sherlock's voice coming from the pool. I couldn't focus on what he was saying, all my blood seemed to rush in my ears.

Then I heard Jim tell me to get back in the pool and there I was, acting like his puppet. I did try to cheat, though. I blinked out S.O.S., but Sherlock either didn't notice or ignored it. I whispered "For God's sake, Jim..." at some point, but he ignored me as well. Then as soon as he seemed distracted I jumped on him to buy some time, yelling as Sherlock to leave. But he didn't budge, and the dreaded laser pointer appeared on his forehead. How could Sherlock have known that nothing could have happened to me? I had no choice but to back off. Jim's jabs about calling me Sherlock's "touchingly loyal" pet didn't go unnoticed, either.

It was easy, when Jim had left, to act shocked and drained, because I'd been on edge through the whole thing. But if there's one thing I never expected, it was for him to waltz back in. What the hell was he doing? Was he going to punish me by giving his one sniper the order after all? Had I gone too far?

I'll never know the answer to those questions. Just as Sherlock was going to shoot the fake bomb and I was wondering what the hell would happen afterwards, Jim got a phone call – from The Woman, as it turned out – and basically walked out on us. I still think it was staged. Adler was working for Jim, and his little stunt at the end was probably his way of keeping us on our toes, letting us know who's boss. Sherlock and I left the pool, both thoroughly shaken, and never spoke of the event again.

Except maybe when we crashed into our sofa and I bumped my knee in my flat mate's. "Hey, Sherlock?

\- What?

\- Next time I say 'run'... You bloody _run_."

* * *

 **So Sherlock's joined the fun. What will become of John and Jim's relationship now?  
**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **nerwende**


	7. Soul survivor

_You ain't giving me no quarter.  
I'd rather drink sea water,  
I wish I'd never had brought you,  
It's gonna be the death of me. _

The Rolling Stones, _Soul survivor_

* * *

After that whole experience which, incidently, did nothing to appease my intermittent PTSD, I was pretty set on hating Jim Moriarty for the rest of my life. So what if for a moment he'd been the soft and playful man I'd fallen for all those years ago, so what if he'd done everything he could to protect me, so what if he'd let us go in the end ? What he'd done was unforgivable and I wasn't going to give in to him this time.

Spoiler alert : this state of mind didn't last very long.

It lasted exactly three months, actually. After the unsolved case which I never failed to remind Sherlock of every now and again, my dear flatmate had been particulaily restless, grumpy, obnoxious and... Well, good thing I had a job to go to because otherwise I probably would have bashed his skull in at some point. Between the experiments that ended in kitchen fire _twice_ , the violin at three in the morning and the near constant "Jaaawwn !"'s shouted from across the room, my already thin nerves were pretty tried.

It didn't help that I kept imagining I could smell Jim on my pillows, either.

I was leaving work one day when a black car stopped in front of me and the same goons from that trip to the pool got out. I didn't even try to fight or even look scandalized. I just let them push me into the car and put the hateful hood on my head, vaguely hoping it had been clean in the interim.

A few minutes later I was dragged inside a building and up a flight of stairs. I stood there awkwardly for a moment before the hood was pulled off of me, and I had to resist the urge to laugh as I recognized Jim's living room. It seemed hilarious at the time, all the precautions they'd taken to make sure I wouldn't know where I was, when that house had been my home for over a year. I could set the journey from there to Baker Street and back to music.

The coffee table was covered with medical equipment – disinfectant, thread, needles, gause, bandages and so on – and the men left the room silently, thought I heard their footsteps stop down the stairs, probably blocking any attempt to escape. I almost called out to them to demand what was going on when tired footsteps came shuffling from the kitchen and Jim's voice filled my ears. "Caucasian male, 38, bullet wound to the side. Only a graze, but it definitely needs stitches."

I turned around to see a battered Jim smile at me as he slowly made his way to the sofa, his left arm wrapped around his body, keeping pressure on the wound. The blood had done a right mess of his white shirt, and he was using his bunched up suit jacket as a compress. His face was ashen and clammy, but he was looking at me with his crooked grin, for all the world looking like he was laughing at a private joke.

I cleared my throat in an attempt to control my own voice. "What the hell am I doing here ?" I asked, foolishly proud of the fact that I'd managed to sound more annoyed than worried.

He feigned surprise and pointedly looked down at his wound, then back up at me, "Isn't it customary to call the doctor when you're, ah, indisposed ?"

I scoffed at him, still rooted on the spot, "I'd have thought master criminals had their own private doctors.

\- Oh but they do," he answered with a cheeky grin. I briefly weighed the idea of letting him bleed to death just to teach him a lesson, but I decided the satisfaction of spiting him wasn't worth a bullet to the head.

I steeled myself, slipping easily into my role of doctor, and went to sit on the floor in front of him – I definitely was _not_ going to kneel. I pushed his hand away to inspect the damage. He was going to have quite the scar from this, but he would live. I asked him to take off his shirt, studiously ignored the eyebrow wriggle it got me and started cutting at his undershirt to expose the wound.

I asked him to keep his arm up and out of the way, and wasn't really surprised when I felt the weight of that arm rest upon my shoulders. I applied the disinfectant before getting to work. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me how it happened ?" I said after a moment, purely to distract myself from our proximity.

I heard him chuckle above me. "I don't kill and tell, John." My movements stuttered at that and he hissed at the extra pinch it gave him. "I was only joking," he grumbled sulkily.

I resoluted to silence then, knowing anything he would say would inevitably piss me off. But after a while, the elbow on my shoulder shifted and the hand attached to it slid up to play with the hair on the back of my head. My heart rate picked up immediately and I froze again. "Please stop that," I said, my voice cold and professional. I felt the breath of his huff in my hair more than I actually heard it, but his hand stayed in place. "I mean it, _Moriarty_ ," I said firmly, "If you don't remove your hand right now I'll make sure you never need stitches again."

We stayed still as statues for a handful of seconds before his hand slid back down to rest on my right shoulder. "The Army made you extra feisty,"he said, "I like it." But all his bravado couldn't quite mask the disappointment in his voice.

Another round of moody silence started, but this time he was the one to break it. "How are you doing, John ?"

The question startled me so much that I pulled a bit too hard on the thread and he hissed. "Kind of you to ask," I said, letting the sarcasm take the wheel, "After you've threatened to have my best friend killed if I refused to act as your puppet."

I could _hear_ his eye-roll as he answered with a bored, "You're not still mad at me for that."

I 'missed' the spot on my next stitch and he yelped. His right hand clenched into a fist and he gave my shoulder a punch. I could have laughed at how childish we were being, but at the time all I felt was resentment. He must have sensed it because his hand opened and his open palm came down to rest on the spot he'd just hit, rubbing at it absentmindedly. I didn't have the energy to tell him to stop this time.

When I was done patching him up, I stood up and he gingerly put his shirt back on. Then suddenly I reached out and put my hand under his chin, gently tilting it up to make him look at me. He froze, his hands still on his lapels, his brow furrowed as I stared into his eyes. I leaned in a bit, getting closer to his face, my gaze never leaving his. I could hear his breath quicken but he sat completely still, waiting for my next move. My right hand came to rest on his shoulder and I felt him shiver as I removed my left from his face, leaning in impossibly closer to him. The silence between us was so thick I could almost taste it. His breath was stuttering in anticipation...

And then I shone my penlight in his eyes and he yelped and flinched, trying to bat my hand away. I scoffed, my hand tightening on his shoulder. "None of that," I said in my best doctor voice, "I think you may have a concussion, so I need you to follow the light with your eyes."

He snarled at me but did as he was told, albeit grumpily. "You play dirty, Johnny-boy," he said, and I'm sure he wished his voice had been steadier than it was.

I smirked at him, "You wanted me to be your doctor, I'm being your doctor. Don't blame me if you don't like it," I replied lightly. I could still feel his heart hammering in his chest and felt extremely satisfied for it. It wasn't often that I managed to be one up on Jim so when I was, I found it really hard not to gloat. "You have a mild concussion," I said finally, straightening up to put away my penlight, "You might want to have someone ask you questions regularly to make sure your memory hasn't suffered from it, and-

\- Yeah, yeah, I know the drill," he interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand.

I nodded, almost chuckling to myself. Apparently I really had got him going. He was way too eager to be done, suddenly. I asked him if there was anything else he wanted me to check, but he answered by a negative. I gave him his prescription form along with a few extra advices which I knew he wasn't actually listening to, and made my way to the door.

"My men will escort you back to Baker Street," he said, coming to stand next to me, holding his hand out. I shook it and he smirked, holding on a bit longer, "I'll see you soon, Doctor Watson," he said darkly, "And be sure to give that lovely flatmate of yours my best."

The trip to Baker Street was pretty much identical to the one that had taken me to Jim's, though I almost told them not to bother with the hood. When I got to the flat a sense of dread filled me when I remembered the mood my mad flatmate had been in. To my utter relief, though, everything there was intact, and Sherlock was fast asleep in his bed. Good. I really didn't feel like dealing with his nonsense just then.

At this point the idea of telling Sherlock about my relationship with Jim was far from my mind. As far as I was concerned, I hadn't done anything wrong. I had dated the man then, upon learning about his past, broken up with him. I had nothing to do with his crimes past, present or future, so what could my testimony possibly bring to the table ?

See how good I am at that game ?

I fixed myself a cup of tea and went up to my room, replaying the day's brief reunion in my mind. Yes, it had been satisfying to wind Jim up for a change. I remembered the way his breath had picked up, his heart hammering and his body shivering. I remembered the look in his eyes as he thought I was going to kiss him. I was weirdly thankful he'd been concussed, though. Because if he hadn't been, he probably would have noticed that all these little reactions were mirrored by my own body.

The next day, Sherlock had gotten a call from Greg but since he was actually sleeping for once, I decided to go to the scene myself and call Sherlock if the case turned out interesting. As it turned out, he's the one who called to know where I was – because no one had made him tea, imagine that – so I ended up raiding the countryside with a laptop, Skyping the world's only consulting detective.

When he mentioned something he'd told me the day before, I had to make an excuse for my absence and the first thing that came out was "I was in Dublin." See what I did there ? Dublin ? Because Jim's- yeah, you probably get it. The great thing when you live with someone like Sherlock is that he very often assumes that whatever you did without him was boring so he doesn't ask. Over the next few years, "I was in Dublin" became code for "I was with Jim", just like "People will talk" was code for "Jim will be jealous".

* * *

 **Did I get you with that almost-kiss?**

 **Thank you for reading, and an even bigger thanks for the reviewers!**

 **nerwende**


	8. A moment of madness

_You know I'm not asking a lot,_

 _Only your life_

 _I don't want to get what I want_

 _But I'm willing to try_

 _And I'm gonna ask you to stop_

 _But I'm full of lies_

Katie Melua, _A moment of madness_

* * *

Ah, the Irene Adler case. It came right on time for me. After one too many inconsequential cases, I was more than eager to find something that could take my mind off of my serial killer of an ex. Of course, I'd also been dating quite a bit on the side, but let's face it, that never amounted to much. It was never really serious for me, and even if it had been, the other half of Baker Street's unhinged duo always made sure to sabotage it. I'm pretty sure it wasn't all intentional, actually. It's just the kind of things that happen when one has no filter. Ask Molly Hooper if she enjoyed herself that Christmas.

Speaking of which, there is one thing worth noting: I came to work to find a post-it notes on my computer screen that soberly read,

 _Merry Christmas_

 _From : Me_

 _To : Just You_

The handwriting was deliberately rounded, and it wasn't quite as straight as it could have been. Obviously Jim had written it right-handedly to make sure his handwriting wouldn't be recognized by anyone else but me. The "Just you" part made me smile in spite of myself. I hadn't said "I love you" to Jim very often, but anytime I'd done it, he'd replied with, "Just you". I once asked him what that was supposed to mean, but the only answer I got was a smile and a shrug.

But what the hell was I supposed to do with that? Should I reply? Should I ignore it? I hated it when Jim did things like that. I hadn't quite forgiven him the pool thing, but at the same time I couldn't help but feel bad at the prospect of letting one of his very rare proofs of affection go unanswered. And if I answered, what then? Would he take that as a sign that I wanted him back? Because I didn't. Well, that's not entirely true. I didn't want to _want_ him back. I shouldn't have wanted him back.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to remember the night he told me about his murderous past. I blew the dust off of the old memory of his voice snarling abuse at me. I summoned the depth of his dead-eyed look when he was angry with me. I made myself say the names of the people who had ended up with actual bombs strapped to them on his command. No, I told myself, I would not do anything to encourage him. I shoved the post-it note in my coat pocket and carried on, certain he would eventually get tired of getting no reply and then move on.

When Irene Adler put a Sherlock on us – that's what I call faking your death and then waltzing back into people's lives like nothing happened – I got angrier than I thought I would. I was angry because my best friend was tormenting himself over someone who just fooled him, but I was also angry because, well... I had left Jim and he'd turned into a world class criminal. I knew how badly something like that could affect people who do not cope well with emotions.

I got angry at her because I was angry at myself. It felt like she'd dealt with things in pretty much the same way as I had, "and look at us both". Granted I don't think we should have expected serial murders because of it, but still. Despite the searches turning out empty I still wasn't entirely convinced our flat was clean, and I knew all too much about turning your destructive tendencies toward yourself. That comparison made me feel somewhat lonely at the moment, but I shoved that feeling deep down where it belonged.

But it soon resurfaced, kicking and screaming.

While Adler hid in our flat, making doe eyes at an oblivious Sherlock, I got a text from an anonymous number – and at this point, I trust we all know what that means – that only contained coordinates. I didn't need to look them up. I knew I'd end up inThe Park. I also knew Mycroft's cameras would probably catch me. But then again, if that was true, how come Jim could stroll around London without getting caught?

The whole case was getting on my nerves to be honest, because having someone you can't stand coming over to stay in your flat... Well, you try that and see how generous you feel. Add to that the fact that this was the loneliest time of the year, and you've probably got the beginning of the reason I waited for Sherlock to get lost in his Mind Palace to grab my coat and go, asking Adler to pass on the information that I had left.

I walked around The Park a couple of times before I heard footsteps coming up toward me. I braced myself and turned to look at Jim. He was wrapped in his black coat – the one I liked best – and a green scarf – the one I hated – and he was just standing there, not moving, not smiling, not talking. I reciprocated. I didn't need to tell him I ought not to be there, he didn't need to tell me he knew I'd show up anyway. We both knew. We stood like that for a while, studying each other. Then, still without a word, he gave a slight nod to his right as he turned and started walking, obviously inviting me to follow.

As far as warm reunions go, this certainly wasn't it. But still I followed, not sure why, and not wondering either. I was done wondering and done thinking as well. Jim led me to a black car – what is it with black cars? – got behind the wheels, started the engine and waited. As I climbed in beside him, I briefly wondered at the lack of chauffeur. It also struck me that I hadn't seen him drive in over four years. The memories of our roadtrips across the country resurfaced, which might have been exactly what he was going for.

The ride was as silent as our meeting, and I was about ready to scream or tear my hair out by the time he pulled up in front of what looked like an abandoned restaurant. He gave me a look as if making sure I was still there, got out and waited for me to catch up. I followed him into the building.

Contrary to what _some_ people may believe, I am not really given to big, romantic gestures. When that theory comes up I usually retort that it all depended on what people consider to be big, romantic gestures. To some, sending flowers is already a lot. To me, bringing your ex-boyfriend to an abandoned restaurant where you had Christmas lights put up along two opposite walls, surrounding the one table in the room with dinner already on the table would definitely constitute _a lot_.

Especially when the dinner is constituted only of said ex-boyfriend's favorites. I tried my best not to look too impressed but I'm pretty sure I blew it. Jim put a hand on my back, gently pushing me toward my chair. He went behind it and probably would have pulled it out for me, but I couldn't bear the thought of it and I quickly sat down before he had a chance. The deep chuckle I heard told me that he'd expected nothing else. He sat across from me, his face unreadable.

I let him pour the wine he'd prepared before I finally cracked. "You really went all out. What would you have done if I hadn't come?" Not the best way to react to the surprise, I know, but this territory was particularily unfamiliar and it kind of freaked me out. I briefly thought that I prefered it when he went crazy. Then I realized it might still happen and got even more nervous.

But Jim just smiled. "The thought didn't even occur."

Or, How To Subtly Let Someone Know That You Own Them 101. I'm pretty fluent in Moriartian and I knew perfectly well what he was saying. He was saying that I just _had_ to give in, that my rejecting him was inthinkable.

I would have laughed at his arrogance if my implied push-overness – I know it's not a word, just bear with me, will you? – hadn't been so insulting. "I almost didn't come." I said, knowing perfectly well I sounded like a petulant child.

He looked at me, his smile hardening a bit. "But here you are." It sounded almost like a challenge. It was so frustrating. He was forcing me to think, to face the situation, which was exactly what I'd wanted to avoid.

If he noticed any of my inner struggles he didn't let it show. Instead he gestured at my plate to let me know I could go ahead, picking up his fork and getting started on his own plate a second later. I followed his lead, determined to get to the point anyway.

"So, what did you want?" I asked after a moment of awkward silence.

Jim looked confused for a second. "I just noticed we were both free tonight and I thought we could have a nice dinner together, for old time's sake." I laughed cruelly at that, and Jim's brow furrowed slightly. His expression turned dark, his jaw set. I was pushing my luck and I knew it.

"Really? That's what you're going with?" I scoffed. He sighed, looked back down at his plate and kept eating, albeit more... ferociously. I was annoying him.

A smart man would probably have stopped it there but, as I am constantly reminded, I am not a smart man. "Jim, you wanted to tell me something, I know you did. So tell me now. No need for..." I vaguely gestured at the empty room, "All of this."

Jim huffed, pointedly dropped his fork – I'm sure he found the resulting _clang_ very satisfying – and sat back. "Fine." he said, his eyes hard as stone. "I wanted to wait until the end of dinner, be all nice and civil since you seem to like it so much, but it looks like someone is eager to proceed." I didn't take the bait. I calmly put the tensils down and crossed my arms, waiting. Jim took a big gulp of his wine then said, enunciating every word slowly for emphasis, "It's time for you to choose a side, John."

A cold phantom hand tightened around my heart. I knew what he meant, and the implications of the choice he was asking of me. And yet I denied it. "What the hell do you mean?" I asked, wincing internally at how hollow my own voice sounded.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Don't be dull, John. That innocent act might fool Sherlock but not me." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. "It's time for you to decide. It's me or him." The demand was dead serious, and I did what I always do when I don't want to adress a serious situation. I made a stupid joke.

"Don't be so jealous, Jim. I told you he and I aren't together." I forced out a laugh, but it was cut abruptly by the sound of Jim's palms hitting the table, hard.

"Enough!" he barked at me. He used the sides of the table to hoist himself up, leaning on his forearms, his face inches from mine. "The time for fun and games is over, John," he hissed at me, "In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock and I are pretty set on destroying each other. You can't have both, so you're going to have to choose a side. What will it be?"

The tone of his voice and the intensity of his eyes sent all my senses on alert. I swallowed hard, choosing my words carefully. "Jim, you already know the answer to that."

He cocked his head to the side slowly, as if processing the information. "Do I?" he asked, his lips curling in a wolfish smile, "If it's so obvious, _Johnny_ ," he all but ground out, "What are you doing here?"

God, how I wanted to shut him up with some big retort there! But the question hung in the air between us, like a physical presence. What _was_ I doing there? I had forbidden myself to think about my actions, just followed my instincts. And look where that left me.

"I just sent you a text," he went on, knowing he was gaining on me, "No one forced you to come, no one is making you stay. You are free to leave if you want." His smugness was too much for me to handle.

I got up so abruptly he had to rear his head back to avoid getting hit by my shoulder. "Fine then," I said, "I'll show myself out."

My hand was reaching for the door handle when he spoke again. "Oh _please_ , John", he scoffed, walking up to stand a few feet behind me, "You could never get away from me even if you tried."

I whirled around to face him. "Is that a threat?" I asked, feeling the anger boil inside me.

He tutted me. "Wouldn't dream of it, darling. I was simply reminding you that you need me."

I barked out a laugh. "Really?" I said, letting sarcasm take over my voice. I crossed my arms, "Enlighten me, then, because I don't quite see it. How exactly do I need you?"

He smiled delightedly as if he'd been waiting for me to ask that question. "You crave danger. You crave risks." He chuckled darkly, "I'm the biggest danger you've ever known. You're an adrenaline junkie, John Watson. You may have found yourself a good fix for now, but what happens when it's not enough anymore?" He buried his hand in his pockets and walked lazily toward me.

"Because at some point it won't be enough. Remember that last time you quit me, you had to go to _war_ to get an equivalent dose." He grabbed my left hand lightly and held it up in front of his face, making sure I was conscious of its steadiness. He gave me a predatory smile above our joined hands. "Everyone has a dark side, John. I just happen to be yours."

I jerked my hand away as if I'd been burnt. That seemed to take him aback, but his gaze never wavered. His mouth stretched into a wolfish smile. "Don't be like that, Johnny-boy. Nothing wrong with desiring someone."

I scoffed. "Not even when that someone is a bloody psychopath?"

He shrugged again, "Beggars can't be choosers, love."

My heart was hammering in my chest, my right hand was clenched into a painful fist and my breath was becoming ragged. I felt as if I would explode from sheer rage, though I had no idea which one of us I was angriest at. "You're wrong," I forced out through clenched teeth, marching over to him, "I am nothing like you, I will never be anything like you, and I certainly don't _need_ you."

I was satisfied to see his brow furrow. He obviously wasn't expecting that. He'd thought he'd won the fight, but I sure as hell wasn't about to let him. "As for your question," I added, driving the point home, "I choose Sherlock's side. You can either turn yourself in now or start writing your will, because he won't stop before you've been taken down."

Jim's smile had been effectively wiped off of his face, but he wasn't about to give in. He licked his lips, preparing for the next blow. "Right now, dear Sherlock is getting scolded by Big Brother and The Slut who, by the way, was working for me the whole time. I can't _believe_ how easily she played your little friend. That's right," he added when my face fell, "He fell right into my trap. The oldest one in the book, really. A pretty girl, a lonely boy... It's so mundane it's not even funny."

He punctuated this with a large gulp of his wine. I stood there, frozen on the stop. Jim, of course, noticed my shock and reveled in it. "Whatever little puzzle Sherlock thinks he's cracked, I'm always one step ahead. So do please spare me the hero speech about how the big bad psychopath is going down. It's not working so well right now, is it?"

He smiled and glanced down at his glass. Then, in one of his infamous mood-swings, he hurled it against the wall and seemed mesmerized by the shards flying around and the purplish stain that ran down the wall.

"And as for you," he said, sounding frighteningly calm for someone who's just performed such a violent display, "You're right, you're nothing like me. Because I know who I am, and I don't lie about it. I don't pretend to have good intentions, and I'm certainly not desperately looking for approval. I stand corrected about what I said at the hospital, by the way," he added, giving me a look of pure disdain, "Looks like the puppy has found a new master after all."

He shook his head, running both hands through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. "You and you're fucking hero complex!" he shouted, looking up sharply, walking toward me again, getting right in my face, "You want so badly to be the good guy that you'll deny yourself what you really want, just because it's supposed to be _wrong_ ," he spat the word like venom, "You found out what I really was and you decided it wasn't good enough for you anymore. Because you're so much better than me, aren't you John?" he gave me a sharp jab in the shoulder. The bad one. "If I do the math correctly, and you know I always do, you have as much blood on your hands that I do on mine, maybe even more. The only difference between you and me is that _I_ don't lie to myself about the reason I do it."

He was breathing heavily now, his hands clenching into fists then unclenching shakily. I knew what that meant, but I also knew I couldn't stop it anymore. "Maybe I should be thankful that Doctor Watson pitied me enough one night to try and help poor little me. And then, when Doctor Watson realized that he wouldn't save me, he just gave up. But hey," another jab, "Well done Doctor Watson for trying!"

He paused for breath, looking at me while shaking his head as if I was the most pathetic thing he'd ever seen. "You think I should consider myself lucky for what we had? You're the one who should consider yourself lucky for treating me like garbage and living to tell the tale."

"Shut up!" I yelled at him, pushing him away, hard. "Yes, I felt bad for you that night. Yes, I tried to help you. I was the only one who was actually on your side at the time. I stood up for you, I defended you, I took a lot of shit from you because I wanted to _help_ you. You don't get to mock me for it now!"

"I didn't want your help," he said, his voice dangerously low. He straightened up and rubbed a hand across his face tiredly. "You don't understand," he said, almost as if he'd just come to that conclusion, and it devastated him. "You never understood. You never understood, you never understood, youneverunderstood..."

"Stop it!" I said as firmly and as evenly as I could, fearing one of his fits.

He reigned himself in, with difficulty, then gestured toward the door. "Go. You've made yourself clear. Just don't expect any kindness from me."

I followed his instruction mindlessly, but before I left I turned to him, lingering in the open door. "Whatever happened to 'the only one in the world you cared about', Jim?" I asked, my voice shamefully shaky.

Jim laughed humorlessly from under the cover of his hands. When he looked up at me, I was shocked to see that his eyes were full of sorrow and defeat. "He left."

I can't explain what happened next. Call it a moment of madness, if you want. I certainly didn't feel in my right mind when it happened. All I know is that one moment we were facing each other, the next I marched up to him, grabbed him by the back of his head and kissed him.

I kissed him like my life depended on it, and after the initial surprise he kissed back, and I felt his arms close around me. I hoisted him on the table and soon his legs had entrapped me too. His movements were so desperate, so needy, so... _human._ If upon coming there I'd decided to stop thinking, I was certainly now living up to it. Nothing mattered but him, and how much I'd missed him, and how much I needed him. He was right. Of course he was.

I trust you won't need the details. What happened, happened. And I hated myself for it.

"It's like riding a bike, isn't it love?" he teased as we were putting our clothes back on. "The hell kind of bike have you been riding?" I grumbled, which made him laugh out loud.

We didn't talk after that, and as Jim was driving me back to The Park I kept thinking that I would be found out right away. I tried to figure out an alibi for myself, but came up with nothing. I didn't feel like I deserved an alibi. I felt like I'd betrayed my best friend. I felt like I was as guilty as Jim was.

"Don't beat yourself up," he said after a while, ever the mind reader, "You're only human after all." I would have bursted into tears right there if the army hadn't taught me how to control my emotions.

Before I got out of the car, I felt the need to turn around and say, "This doesn't change anything."

Jim scoffed and said, "Well, we'll see."

I closed my eyes, too tired physically and emotionally to get properly angry again. "Jim, this was a mistake."

He used his right hand to turn my head toward him, gently forcing me to face him. "That's what your parents said about you, but personally I always disagreed." A tear did manage to escape then, and Jim's thumb wiped it away. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but I didn't let him. I got out, slammed the car door and left without a glance back.

When I got back home and I realised that the flat was empty, I quickly showered and changed my clothes, already making up a story about an emergency at the hospital that would have required the change as I got home. The great thing when you live with an all-perceiving consulting detective is that you learn how to anticipate the unwanted deductions and build your responses accordingly.

I was good at lying anyway. I pretended to be bad at it, but that too was a lie. I've always been a terrific liar.

Just as well. There would be a lot more lying to come.

* * *

 **Well... That happened. I guess that's the moment we've all been waiting for, isn't it?**

 **Thank you for reading, see you guys next time!**

 **nerwende**


	9. Carry that weight

_I never give you my pillow_

 _I only send you my invitations_

 _And in the middle of the celebrations_

 _I break down_

The Beatles, _Carry that weight_

* * *

If that encounter taught me anything – other than the fact that I'm not twenty anymore – it's that I'd never be fully done with Jim Moriarty. He has this hold on people, don't know if you've noticed. Even when I tried to make myself move on and forget about him, he would make sure I couldn't. I don't know how he did it, he always seemed to know when a little reminder was needed.

I'd find post-it notes, always with the right-handed handwriting, always signed "from me to just you". I'd be receiving books I never ordered, even though the informations on the bills were mine. Well, except for the bank account number. At least he had the decency not to make me pay for them. He'd told me years ago that he found my obsession with books adorable, and now he was using it against me.

But don't get me wrong, the books weren't just presents. They were messages. For example, the first one I got after that evening was _Catch-22_. Clever. And also, so appropriate. My situation was very much a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" one. No matter what side I chose, I was bound to lose. How thoughtful of him to remind me of that. I texted him to inform him that I already owned a copy that book, which in turn got me a copy of _The ungrateful bastards_ two days later. I couldn't help but laugh out loud when I discovered the book, which ended up in an awkward explanation when I was met with the Great Sherlock Holmes' suspicion.

Then I found a note at work that said, _Do you miss me?_ I almost thought it was from Sarah, Jim had done a such agood job of imitating her handwriting, but there was the ever present signature. I turned the little square of paper over and wrote, _Stop doing that_ , underlying it three times for emphasis. That very same night the book waiting for me on my bed was _Bossypants_. I stashed it on my overloaded bookshelf, fuming at the fact that he still managed to give me attitude even without talking to me.

After a few months of this, everything abruptly stopped. The books, the notes, the texts... I stopped receiving anything. At first it was a relief, because how long could I have gotten away with it? But after a while it got unnerving. I agree that Jim is like a spider, but for a different reason. You know the old joke : "What's worse than seeing a spider in your room? Losing a spider in your room"? Jim is like that. He's much scarier when I don't know what he's up to.

I ended up giving in and leaving a note on my computer at work, saying _Follow up on Isaac?_ Isaac is Jim's middle name, in case you were wondering. I knew he'd get the reference, and for all the world I just looked like I was making a note to myself about a patient. You learn these things quite quickly, after a while.

But I came in the next day and the note was still there. I looked all around the room and found nothing. I came home, but no new book had found its way to me. I gave it a few more days, and then I got worried. What if he'd gotten caught? The only person I think is more threatening than Jim is Mycroft Holmes. If Mycroft had gotten his hands on Jim, there was no telling what would happen. But I didn't frequent detectives, cops and government officials for nothing. I bought a cheap phone, texted Jim, _Call me, I'm worried_ and threw that phone at the bottom of the Thames. I knew I could trust him to understand. But I didn't hear back from him.

I was mulling over this situation and frankly worrying despite myself when Henry Knight came into Baker Street. For many different reasons, the case of _The Hounds of Baskerville_ was by far the most nerve-racking case I'd ever been part of. Though the worst of it was not the whole mythical killing dog thing.

The worst was the thought that a certain self celebrated genius didn't see the problem with drugging his army veteran of a flatmate. I'd managed to get my PTSD somewhat under control, but the stress of the case plus the fact that the one person I thought I could trust had not hesitated to throw me into said situation did nothing to help. I mean, what did he think would happen? Oh yeah, let's give the guy that lives constantly on the edge of mental breakdown a hallucination-inducing drug! What on earth could go wrong?

What went wrong was that I couldn't get a proper night's sleep for a week. Either I'd scream myself awake after a vivid nightmare or I'd spend the night tossing and turning, too tired to function but too afraid to sleep. I even once woke up from yet another nightmare to my right hand clawing at the scar on my left shoulder. I ended up going down to the bathroom at three a.m. to stitch myself up, trying to shut out the phantom screams that had found their way into my consciousness. The thing with PTSD is, when you ignore it for too long, it comes back at you full-force – much like Jim, really. I was in a state of constant anxiety, and sometimes my senses would decide to play me a little flashback from Afghanistan.

On one sleepless night I decided to go for a walk, hoping it would help clear my head. I kept my head down and pretended didn't see a bleeding soldier in the middle of the road (Hartigan). I crossed the road and try not to start at the sound of a handgrenade exploding next to me. I started humming tonelessly to cover up the cries of a corporal (Miller) repeating over and over that he didn't want to die. The war was back and try as I might, I couldn't escape it.

Then, I heard a very real sound. A text alert. I latched onto that distraction and grabbed my phone eagerly. Unknown number. It contained nothing but an adress. I didn't even stop to wonder if I should or shouldn't go, I rushed to the place. I was surprised to find out it was a hotel. I got in, unsure what I should ask the man at the front desk, but in the end I didn't need to worry. He took one look at me and gave me a key. I can only guess that Jim had paid him off. I took it, muttered my thanks and got up to the room.

I remember stopping in front of the door and wondering whether or not I should knock. He was waiting for me after all, and he always said manners were a waste of time. That last thought was actually the reason I decided to knock in the end. Just to spite him. A small victory in a losing fight against your own instincts, I suppose.

I heard a quiet "Come in, John" and slipped into the room, and for the second time in a year or so I came face to face with a bruised and exhausted James Moriarty. He gave me a half smile, but I could tell it was forced. I closed the door and walked up to him, my doctor side taking the wheels. "What happened to you?" I asked him, bending down to look more closely at his face.

He shook his head dismissively. "Just a little run-in with Mycroft Holmes' men." So I was right. I must have looked apalled because he breathed out a laugh. "Don't worry, I'm fine," he said, although he let me run my fingers over his body in search of blood or broken bones. "They just roughed me up a little. Nothing I couldn't handle." He stretched and yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm more tired than anything else." My quick examination had confirmed his words, so I didn't pry. He sighed, let his arms drop to his sides and scrutinized me for a second. He frowned, "Are _you_ alright?"

I wish I could say I wasn't desperate enough to find comfort in his worry, but I was, so I did. I sat next to him and basically gave way to my frustration. I told him about the case, I told him about the experiment performed on me in the lab, I told him about the nightmares that followed. Jim's face was unreadable for most of it, but the mention of my PTSD attacks seemed to harden his features.

"Some friend, you've chosen, John," he said, obviously making an effort to control himself.

I waved a hand, trying to sound flippant, "It's not his fault, really. Anything could have triggered me at this point.

\- Your ability to excuse the unexcusable is truly inspiring.

\- Lucky for you."

He chuckled at that. "Fair enough." But his laughter quickly disolved into another yawn.

"You should sleep," I said, perfectly aware of how mother-henly I sounded.

I expected him to argue, but he merely nodded. "So do you," he replied. He turned, pulled the comforter partially off the bed and basically crawled up to put his head on the pillow. He gave a contented sigh as he pulled the comforter over himself. I took that for a dismissal, so I got up and walked up to the door, but his voice stopped me. "Where do you think you're you going?" I turned to see him pull at the comforter on the other side of the bed, looking at me expectantly.

I was dumbfounded. "Are you serious?" is all that came out of my mouth.

He closed his eyes, as if he'd decided this conversation wasn't important enough to require his full attention. "Are you seriously thinking about walking all the way to Baker Street?" he mumbled sleepily.

I thought about it and frankly the mere idea made me dizzy. I didn't have any energy left to go home. A voice in my head – the one that sounds suspiciously like Jim – told me that I'd never really planned the way back. I sighed, kicked off my shoes, stripped down to my undershirt and boxers and went to lie next to Jim. The moment I was settled he turned to me and put his hand on my arm, mumbling incoherently. He was already fast asleep.

I looked at his relaxed features, marveling at how young he looked when he slept, and also at how easy it was to fall back into this routine. Then I must have fallen asleep too, because the next thing I remember seeing is Afghani sand.

I dreamed of flashes of light, eruptions of blood, screams, loneliness, despair. I was startled awake, my hands shaking. I looked over at Jim. He'd turned in his sleep, his arm now lying at his side, his fingers twitching softly as he slept. We weren't touching anymore. I felt a cold sweat running down my back and my breath wasn't slowing down. I was having a panic attack.

I slipped out of the bed as quietly as I could and made my way into the small tiled bathroom. There I closed the door, went to sit with my back against the tub and hugged my knees to my chest. I kept telling that myself the war was over, that I was safe – well, broadly speaking – in London, that nothing was going to happen and that everything was alright. None of that worked. Your brain is always better at registering the bad than the good. Or at least mine is.

I rested my head against my knees, feeling the tremors extend to my whole body. My breath was coming more and more ragged, and my ears were once again recreating the sounds of a thousand soldiers dying. I screwed my eyes shut, knowing that if I opened them I wouldn't see the fancy hotel bathroom. I would see the battlefield.

I never heard the bathroom door open, or the lightswitch being flicked, or the footsteps coming toward me. But I did feel a cool hand rest on my burning neck. The fingers softly traveled up to run into my hair in a familiar soothing motion. Between the detonations and the cries of pain, I heard a voice whisper in my ear. "It's alright. You're safe." It seemed so far away at first, but I held onto the voice, trusting it to lead me out of this hell. "I'm here," it said, and it sounded like it was gaining intensity, "I won't let anything happen to you."

A kiss was deposited on my temple. The bombs seemed to drop further away. The screams died down. Slowly but surely I became aware of other things. The arm across my chest holding me against someone else's, the buzzing sound of the neon light, the coldness of the tiled floor numbing my feet. And still the whispers came, pulling me further back into reality. "Come back, John. Come back to me."

I took a deep breath, surprised that I could even manage it, held it, and released it carefully. I silently counted to three and lifted my head. The hand left my hair and slid down to rest between my shoulderblades. One more breath, and I cracked my eyes open. I blinked into the light and turned to my left. Jim was looking at me, guarded concern etched in his features. He gave me a faint smile. "There you are."

I gave a strangled groan as I reached out and held onto him for comfort. He didn't mock me for that moment of weakness, just wrapped his arms around me and held me tight while I was working on breathing steadily. I glanced up at some point and caught a glimpse of the alarm clock on the night stand. Four thirty in the morning. We'd only been sleeping for about two hours. I cursed myself. He must be so exhausted.

"I'm sorry," I muttered agains his shoulder.

I felt him shrug – honestly, he has to stop doing that – and said, "Sorry's boring."

He kept holding me, rubbing circles on my back until the trembling subsided. We got up – some of us shakily so – and made our way back to bed. I lay on my right side. I was uncomfortable turning my back to him, but there was no way I could lie on my left side with my shoulder throbbing the way it was. Jim didn't mind, though. I felt him nudge his way closer to me until his chest came in contact with my back. His left arm came to wrap itself around me, the hand splayed across my chest as if he was trying to monitor my heartbeats. I would have been embarassed at being spooned like that if I didn't crave the contact. I closed my eyes, focussing on the soothing motion against my scalp. I didn't even feel myself fall asleep.

When I next woke up it was almost noon and the bed was empty. A quick look around the room told me that Jim had left a while ago. I took a shower, made the bed and left. When I got home and Sherlock asked where I'd been, I made up a one night stand. This earned me a raised eyebrow, but no question came my way. The tension was still palpable after the lab fiasco, and Sherlock was pretty much walking on eggshells around me. I fixed myself breakfast, doing my best to ignore the guilty feeling that always came with my moments with Jim.

Only this time it wasn't so bad. Because for the first time, I'd found the Jim I'd fallen in love with. The one that protected me, the one that comforted me after that Christmas with my parents. I could never give up on that Jim. I just wish that Jim could come out to play more often. But I take what I can get. You may think it's wrong, you may say I was delusional. But the thing is, I didn't have any nightmare that night. I didn't have any nightmare for a while after that.

* * *

 **The last few chapters have been rather intense, so I thought I'd give you some Johniarty fluff.**

 **You know, before we get to the really bad stuff.**

 **Thanks for reading, see you next chapter!**

 **nerwende**


	10. Death on two legs

_Death on two legs_

 _You're tearing me apart_

 _Death on two legs_

 _You never had a heart of your own_

Queen, _Death on two legs_

* * *

I would have been hard pressed to tell what Jim and I _were_ exactly at the time, but a couple definitely wasn't a thing that would have come to mind. To this day I still don't know what the hell that period was about. There was no rule, no agreement. Every now and again we'd meet up, have minimal conversation sometimes accompanied by dinner, often followed by sex, then we'd go back on our seperate ways.

Against all odds, I was rather content with the situation. I even managed to lie to myself convincingly enough to believe that this could actually last. For the first time, it felt like this crazy, impossible situation was under control.

And then one day, Jim was arrested in the Tower of London.

Now Jim is quite the unexpected person, so saying I wasn't prepared for his grand magic trick that wouldn't be saying much. I had long since stopped trying to anticipate his next moves, anyway. But seeing the text he'd sent his so called nemesis made the phantom hand grip at my heart once more. I thought about visiting him to try and find out what he was up to, but there was no way I could speak to him without witness. The mere request of it would have been suspicious.

I almost didn't go to the trial, because a part of me was still terrified he would tell everyone about our relationship. But I also knew better than to let the second strangest man I know testify at the trial of the strangest man I know. That could only end badly, I thought. I think we can all agree that I was right on that one.

During the trial Jim wouldn't stop turning to glance at me, and every time my heart stuttered because I thought this was it, he would give the game up. But he stuck to staring blankily or making faces at me. I knew he was trying to make me laugh, but I was also aware of a deeper meaning. It was a sort of taunting. A way of saying, "You ain't seen nothing yet."

Of course I knew he'd get out of it. I knew full well what he was capable of. And yet, when the news came, I acted shocked and outraged like the good little liar I'd become and did my best to prevent the inevitable. Jim visited 221b in my absence, obviously ignoring my many texts and calls.

I wandered down The Park then, hoping maybe he'd come. I'd been there for hours when I decided he wasn't going to show up and sat on a bench, feeling dejected. I rubbed at my face with both hands in frustration, when I felt someone sit beside me. I groaned, not needing to look to know.

"Did you just watch me going around and wait for me to sit down?" I asked, once again choosing the petty road.

A light-hearted laugh reached my ears. "I know better than to chase after you when you're feeling antsy, John."

I sighed and sat back in my seat. Jim was wearing a hat and glasses, holding an open newspaper he was pretending to read. It was all so cliché I almost laughed. "What are you up to?" I asked, looking straight ahead.

"Never you mind," he sing-songed, which only made me want to slap him. "I'm not staying, though," he added seriously, "It's getting too risky for us to be together outside."

I barked out a laugh, "Well, who's fault is that?"

He turned his page sharply, making a show of shaking off the creases in his newspaper. "Maybe if you had chosen a side-

\- You mean if I had chosen _your_ side!" I shouted, startling a passing jogger.

Jim tutted me. "I'm not here to fight, John," he said surprisingly gently, "I just wanted to let you know that things are about to get very messy, very quickly. I don't know if we can ever meet again after this." He took a sharp breath there, as if bracing himself before adding, "I don't know if you'll ever want to see me again after this."

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to breathe through the vice-like grip of the phantom hand. "Whatever you're planning to do, you don't have to do it," I said, knowing it would be a failed attempt.

Jim's hands tightened on his newspaper. "You know perfectly well that I do."

For the first time I turned to look at him, really look at him. His shoulders were hunched, dark circles underlined his eyes and his brow was furrowed. I'd never seen him looking so close to fear. The phantom hand tightened. A knot formed in my throat. Right there and then, without knowing what was in store, I had a glimpse of just how terrible it would be. "Why are you telling me?" I choked out, once again chosing anger over grief, "You know I won't go with you, why are you warning me?"

He gave me a quick, sharp look. "Eyes up front, John!" he hissed. I obeyed without thinking. He sighed and his voice softened. "I'm sorry you're caught up in the middle, really I am," he said, and I made a mental note that this was the first time he'd sincerely apologized for anything, "Because you were right, that night at the restaurant," he said slowly, carefully, "You are the only person who ever cared enough to help me. You are the only one who got close to me," I didn't need to look to know a sad smile had creeped on his face, "Just you," he added, and the knot in my throat tightened so hard my eyes started to burn.

"I owe you a lot, John," he said earnestly, "I. Owe. You." He snapped his paper shut and walked away. I was too stunned to move. What do you do when the person you love threatened everything else in your life? What do you do when you're so messed up you can't stop loving them anyway?

For the next two months I felt like I was back on the battlefield. Every text, every phone call, every newsflash made me anxious. I'd go to work and tense up as I saw post it notes, only to see they were from one of the nurses. I knew Jim would strike, but I had no idea how, when, or where. I wasn't even sure I knew why.

Then one day Mycroft "invited" me to the Diogenes Club to discuss current events. To tell you the truth, when those personalized messages showed up on the ATM, I was sure they were from Jim. But no, I ended up in a fancy place where people acted like I was scum of the earth – and to them, I probably was. Mycroft had me sitting down across from him and started the interview.

The thing is, though, when you juggle two egotistical self-proclaimed sociopaths on a daily basis, you feel less and less inclined to take other people's shit. Mycroft is only a prissy version of the two I was dealing with, and as much as he would like to impress me, he doesn't. Besides, there are few things on earth that I enjoy more than pulling Mycroft Holmes' legs.

He asked me if I knew Richard Brook, and I could honestly say I didn't. I didn't know Jim's aliases after all, and that name didn't ring any bell. Then I was presented with a file of assassins who'd taken rooms in Baker Street. He was sure Jim was behind it and so was I, and yet once again I couldn't help but emit the idea that maybe he didn't have anything to do with it. I know, I know. This is why I can't have nice things. If I'd had a slightly plausible alternative theory to feed Mycroft, I would have done it without a second thought.

After shamelessly making fun of Mycroft purely because I'm the only person, besides his family, that can get away with it, I left feeling like the unspoken countdown was slowly running down. I was returned home only to find a cryptic clue and a team of Scotland Yard officials, and suddenly we were on a case.

When it turned out children had been kidnapped then slowly poisoned, I started mentally praying that Jim wasn't behind this. Even after everything I didn't want to believe he would do something like that. He recently told me the _"Hurry up - they're_ _dying_ _!"_ fax he'd sent was sincere – he was really trying to make sure the kids would survive. I'm willing to believe him, but not out of the goodness of my heart. It would have ruined a good chunk of his game if the kids had died.

I hate myself when I think like that.

I helped with the research because of course I did. When the theory that Jim was behind this came up I feigned surprise. It was a fairly logical conclusion, but my questionable loyalty still made me try to derail that train of thought. Then the children were found, and the little girl screamed her head off when she saw the very man that allowed them to be rescued. I was shocked.

When you've been with a sociopath long enough, you start to understand the way they think. I realized Jim wanted to burn the image of local hero Sherlock Holmes. He wanted the hero to turn into the villain. As I silently pieced the events together I turned to look at my friend, only to see the lit windows in the building across the street spell out _I.O.U._ Later I would count twenty-seven graffitis across London displaying these exact three letters. And they say I don't notice anything.

Then, in a blur, what had to happen happened. Scotland Yard came to make an official arrest. I might have lost my cool for a second, but you try to live with the fact that your boyfriend and your best friend are set on killing each other and we'll compare notes. Besides, the chief superintendent is a prick.

Anyway, we ended up on the run and got to that annoying journalist's place. But of course, who would happen to stroll in, pretending he's a trained actor who was paid to be the villain of the story? My very own boyfriend, wearing my very own cardigan by the way. I was already pretty pissed at him for the story he was feeding Scotland Yard and the media, not to mention the fact that he had hurt _children_ in the process. And now he was acting like he was trying to convince me of his innocence. That was probably his way of protecting me, I know, but I was beyond angry with him.

He tried to appeal to me, both in his act and for real. When he saw how mad I was he actually cowered and begged me not to hurt him. That's when I really snapped. I started yelling, "You are Moriarty! You were gonna blow me up!" at him, making it very clear that I wasn't going to go along with whatever crazy plan he'd made. There was no way I could have agreed to any of this, and I cursed myself for actually thinking that Jim could ever change.

I like to think the apologies Jim kept repeating contained some truth. Maybe they did. He told me they were true, but I'm not always sure whether he's telling me the truth or not. But at the time I couldn't have care less about his apologies. I loathed him for having the nerve to drag me into this after everything he'd done. The file he'd put up and that was shoved under my nose only added more crimson to the red I was already seeing. I rushed after him, actually willing to have him put away. But he escaped us, and I decided to take out my fury on someone else.

I went to see Mycroft and called him out on his betrayal. It might seem hypocritical but bear in mind that, no matter how many times I went to see Jim, I never once revealed anything that could help him in his plans. So to see that Holmes had sold his own brother out to just like this make my blood boil.

Of course I have since found out that it was all an elaborate plans between the infamous Holmes brothers, plan I had once again been ruled out of, but at the time it made my history with Public Enemy number one seem like a harmless escapade. To me, at least. I made the mistake of letting it slip that I knew Mycroft had abducted Jim, but thankfully he was distressed enough not to notice. Mycroft spilled it all to me, and I spilled my venom to him. I would have beaten the crap out of him if I'd thought I could get away with it.

After that I just rushed back to St Bart's lab to try to help holding everything together. But it felt like applying pressure to a gunshot wound to the chest. You can try as hard as you can, eventually the blood will seep through your finger and the heart will grow weaker. Everything was falling apart and I couldn't press down hard enough to keep it together.

I would like to clarify that the phone call I got about Mrs. Hudson really happened. That is to say, it wasn't an excuse planned by either me or Jim. I really did speak to someone who told me she'd gotten shot. I now realize it was Jim's final attempt to protect me. He was getting me out of the equation before things got ugly.

Of course that's not how I saw it then. When I realized it was a hoax, I knew that at least one of the two most important men in my life would meet his end, and that I wouldn't be there to try to prevent it. I would have broken down right there and then if I'd had the time. Instead I rushed back to Bart's, frantically trying to call Jim. He let his phone ring all the way through. Somehow I knew he'd seen my call but had chosen not to answer. I left a string of curses and threats as a voicemail, only stopping when the tone alerted me that I'd reached the end of maximum recording time. I could see the cabbie shooting worried glances at me, but I ignored him. The countdown was rushing to the end and I'd been thrown out of the race.

I won't go into what it feels like to have your best friend phone you his supposed confessions then plunge to his supposed death. It's been five years and I still have nightmares about it. Granted, between my father and the war I'd been having nightmares for most of my life anyway, but I still think it's no reason to add to it.

When the verdict came that the Great Fraud Sherlock Holmes was dead, I almost lost it. It was agony to wait until Scotland Yard was gone but when they finally were, I rushed up to the roof. I was met with the sight of a large pool of blood where Jim had been standing. But no body. My gun – _my_ sodding gun – was lying on the floor. I supposed one had taken it for protection and the other had nicked it. I was fuzzy on the details. I was fuzzy on almost everything at the time. It's a wonder that I still functioned at all.

In a haze I walked to the edge of the building, looking down at the pavement where a crowd had fussed around a bleeding, broken body only a moment ago. I'm not sure what I was thinking back then. I'm pretty sure I wasn't above the thought of taking that final step. But then a voice stopped me.

"Please don't."

It wasn't an order and it definitely wasn't ironic. It was a real plea. I closed my eyes and tried to take a steadying breath. I clenched my right hand on my gun and I turned, pointing it at Jim's grave face. He still had blood running down the back of his neck. He didn't seem the least bit fazed about my action. He just looked... Concerned.

My left hand started shaking and I could feel the threat of tears. "Does this suit you better?

\- Yes," is all he said, and he meant it.

We stood like that, gauging each other, and I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now," I ground out.

He cocked his head to the side. "There aren't any," he replied calmly.

I made a foreign sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Tears started rolling down my face, but I kept my right arm steady. "You killed my best friend," I said, as if that detail could have escaped him.

Jim gave me a sad smile. "Yes. And now you're free."

The air was knocked out of me for a second. I stammered, "What, what the hell do you mean I'm free?"

He took a step toward me, holding his hands out as he spoke. "You couldn't choose a side," he explained serenely, "I gave you the opportunity to choose me, but you didn't. At that journalist's house, you could have followed me, but your loyalty stopped you. You were constantly torn between him and me. Now you can go with me. There's nothing holding you back."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I didn't want to understand the implications of his statement. "I didn't leave you because of him," I said, and my voice sounded foreign even to me, "I left you because of you."

He nodded encouragingly, "I know, but then you came back to me. Don't you see?" he added that last part excitedly, and I wondered if his eyes had always looked so crazed, "At first I was just mad that you had picked him over me, I wanted to make him pay for taking you away from me. But that night at the hotel I realized that you were still in love with me. But you were too loyal to walk out on him. And he didn't even deserve your friendship! Look at the way he treated you! He had to go if I wanted to have you back."

My right hand gave way to the same tremor that was shaking my left, and I had to lower it. My right leg started throbbing. I buried my face in my hands – I couldn't tell you at what point I dropped my gun – and started to sob out a litany of "No, no, no, no, no..."

Jim came closer to me, not even aware that his every word only made things worse. "It was all for you, John," he said emphatically, "From the beginning it was all for you. Just you," I gave a muffled cry at that. I felt his hand come to rest on my shoulder. "I know it's hard to hear, right now. I know it will probably take you some time to get over. But in the end you'll see it was all worth it," I looked up at him and through my tears I could see him grinning at me, "I'll make it up to you, John, I promise. I'll do anything for you."

He probably would have gone on and on, but I didn't let him. I punched him harder than I'd ever punched anyone in my life. He fell backwards into the pool of blood – how appropriate – and I fumbled for my gun. I stood above him, aiming straight at his head once again. He looked disappointed but not shocked. I snarled at him. "You're a monster." His trademark grin crept up on his face. "You won't kill me, John," he said, before schooling his features in a mock-sad grimace, "You looove me."

The shot rang out before I even realized what I was doing. I stood there, tears running down my face, looking at the blood running down his. I lowered my arm, breathing heavily. I had never felt so tired in my life. I didn't just want to sleep, I wanted to close my eyes and never have to open them again. I crouched down in front of him. The shock was still etched onto his features. It seemed I had finally managed to shut him up.

One last strangled sob made its way out of my throat. I rubbed a hand down my face. "I'll never forgive you for this," I muttered before getting up and walking away. Before I left I turned one last time to look at him. He was propped up on one elbow, staring blankly at he floor where the bullet had buried itself. The graze on the side of his head was going to need stitches.

* * *

 **Well. Not entirely sure where that came from but, there you go. And where do we go from here?...**

 **Guess you're going to have to keep on reading to find out.**

 **See you guys next time!**

 **nerwende**


	11. My Lady d'Arbanville

_My Lady d'Arbanville_

 _Why does it grieve me so?_

 _But your heart seems so silent_

 _Why do you breathe so low?_

 _Why do you breathe so low?_

Cat Stevens, _Lady d'Arbanville_

* * *

I must have really made an impression on him, because he obeyed my last order. For two years I threw myself into my work in a desperate attempt to cope with the double loss I had suffered. It took a lot of therapy to get me somewhat back on my feet, but it only ever breeched the surface. I told Ella I felt guilty about what had happened, and she deduced that I meant I wished I'd been able to prevent The Fall. While this was true, it certainly didn't account for the fact that everything that had happened had been my fault, no matter how you looked at it.

I'm not sure why I didn't confess to anyone. It sure as hell didn't matter to me anymore. But to be honest, I actually stopped caring. I shut everything and everyone out. I left Baker Street, never returned Lestrade's calls, walked the other way when I spotted Not-Anthea getting out of a black car. I cut ties with that life. I didn't think I deserved it anymore. So many people had been hurt because of me.

Then one day, after about eighteen months, I met Mary. She was a new nurse, and at first I didn't allow myself to think of her that way. But she was persistant. I think she waited for me to buy her a drink, but then one day she basically went, "Sod this, I'm taking the lead." I honestly have no idea what she ever saw me. Maybe the broken shell of a man I was – _the broken shell of a man every soldier eventually becomes_ – called out to her the same way Jim's outcast status had called out to me. Maybe she just wanted to fix me.

She started by sitting next to me in the cafeteria and chatting about random things. Then she actually brought me lunch one time I'd forgotten to eat – this happened every now and again. I was so absorbed by my work that I would forget my most basic needs. Sounds familiar?

Then finally she convinced me to go out for a drink. I was already drinking too much as it was, but I accepted anyway. I still had enough control to know where the borderline was. We got to know each other, and over the days we grew closer and closer. It wasn't long before I fell head over heels for her. I thought I'd finally found The One, if you believe in such things. She was smart, funny, caring, beautiful, and she knew how to coax me out of my dark moods.

I told her as much as I could about what had happened. I left out the part where I used to date the biggest criminal mastermind London had ever known, of course. She never gave me the whole "I know how you feel", "Time heals all wounds", "Everything will be alright" bullshit everyone else did. She listened and she understood. I never wanted more than this.

We moved in together rather quickly. Harry jokingly told me that she thought only lesbians did that, but I ignored her. Six months after our first kiss, I nervously went shopping for a ring. I was turning over a new leaf. I had finally found someone I loved who loved me back in the same way, someone who didn't lie, cheat, or kill. I'm aware that these are not a normal person's standards.

I decided it was time to go pay Mrs. Hudson a visit. She was surprised but pleased at the news, and just like that I knew I'd survive this. I panically booked a table at the best restaurant I knew and planned to propose that night. It would all have gone very smoothly if my supposedly dead best friend hadn't chosen that precise moment to make his grand return.

At first I was enraged. After all the guilt and the pain I'd put myself through, the reunion was too much to bear. Imagine the hardest, most traumatic experience in your life – and I think I can safely say that in my case, it's saying a lot – being dismissed as no big deal. All my life I'd been left behind all the time, and this was the worst case of it.

But then again, some part of me knew I wouldn't stay mad for long. It's hard to stay mad at someone who plunges into a bonfire to save your life. The routine was hard to manage at first, but we managed. The whole "bomb in the Tube" thing got me quite mad as well, but in the end I didn't really care. It felt like a second chance, and I was not willing to waste it.

Mary and I got married and a reliable source informed us that we were expecting a baby. This threw us for a loop, since neither of us had any experience in raising a child – say what you will, petulant consulting detectives don't count – but in time we started making plans for our family. Our family. I still can't say those words without feeling a pang in my heart. I was actually going to have a family. For the first time in my life I was happy, truly happy.

And then came Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Nothing could have prepared me from that case, the second worst of my life. I defy anyone to find their recently-resurrected best friend with a gunshot wound in their chest, only to find out twenty-four hours later that their wife is the one who shot him. When I realized Mary was a trained assassin, I felt dangerously close to losing my mind. It felt like I was under a curse I couldn't escape. I had gotten rid of one killer, only to fall for another one. As she told us everything, I remember thinking _Not again, not again, not again_.

I mulled the situation over for months, weighing the pros and cons. Con : she was a trained assassin who tried to kill my best friend. Pro : she was an _ex-_ assassin who had saved my best friend's life. Does any of that make sense to you? Because to me it didn't for the longest time. I kept toying with the USB stick containing her life story, but I never could bring myself to look into it. I wasn't sure why at the time.

And then, on the morning of Christmas Eve, it hit me : I didn't care what was on that USB. Which meant that I didn't really care what was in her past. All that really mattered to me was that I loved her and I wanted to start a family with her. I told her as much, burned the darkness out of her life and decided to forget all about it.

But of course, there was still Charles Augustus Magnussen, a.k.a. the man who infuriated me like no one else. Jim felt like perfect boyfriend material next to him. True Jim was a master criminal, but at least he wasn't sneaky or petty about it. Magnussen was slimy and revolting, and I would have gladly showed him his own insides if I could. Seriously, who wees in people's fireplaces? What grown man flicks other people's faces for fun? When he did that the fleeting thought that Jim would have thrown a fucking _fit_ if he'd been there came to me without warning.

You know the rest. Magnussen was shot and my friend was about to be taken away from me once again. Had Mary not been there, I might not have survived it. But then again I didn't have to, did I? Because that's when my crazy ex-boyfriend chose to get back in the game, and boy did he do it like the bloody prima donna he is.

I don't think I did a very good job of being surprised upon hearing the news, but in the frenzy it went unnoticed. For my part the only thing I found strange was the fact that he'd waited that long. And then we heard nothing for months. Talk about an anti-climax. I'm pretty sure Jim does these things just because he can.

But soon I had other things to worry about. When Mary woke me up in the middle of the night, shouting that her water broke, I was overjoyed. Well, a bit freaked out as well, but I couldn't wait to meet my daughter. I had promised myself I would do everything possible to be the best father I could be for her. I would make her proud, I would teach her everything I knew. And most of all, I would do everything in my power to make her feel wanted. I was going to make sure she knew she was loved.

I was standing next to the doctor in charge and when I first saw her, I couldn't get over how much I loved her already. But then I noticed something else. She wasn't breathing. The thought had barely had time to register when the steady beeping of the machines turned frantic. I demanded to know what had happened, trying to divide my attention between my wife and my daughter, but I wasn't paid any mind.

Someone pushed me out of the room so they could work on saving both their lives. I paced the waiting room, my mind going over everything that could be happening. I'm telling you, a medical knowledge is not an advantage in these situations. At some point I caught a glimpse of Belstaff. "How did you know to come?" I asked stupidly.

"You texted me," Sherlock said, his brow furrowed. I didn't even remember doing it.

It seemed an eternity until the doctor came out of that room, and before he even spoke I knew. The baby never took her first breath. Mary had bled out and they hadn't been able to stop it. I had come into the hospital a husband soon-to-be father. I left a childless widower. So it goes.

I don't remember the ride back to Baker Street. I don't remember much of the next three days, really. Everything was a blur. I think I only came to my senses at the funeral three days later, standing before the two coffins. I always said the ugliest thing in the world was a small, white coffin. I stand by that statement.

I broke later that night after I got home – home being Baker Street. There was no way I could live in the house I'd shared with her, painting the nursery and arguing over the baby's name. I ended up giving her the name Mary had picked. Who am I kidding? I was always going to let Mary name our daughter. If we'd had twelve children I would have let her pick all of their names.

Whatever have I done? I still can't help but wonder. What the hell have I done to deserve this? I know I'm not perfect, I'm certainly not as good as some people think I am. Maybe I'm not even a good person at all. I had let a lot of bad things happen and did nothing, it's true. But I have also helped a lot of people. Everything I did, I did it to try to help someone. Sometimes it backfired, yes, but it was never my intention.

Worst of all is the ever present guilt that took on a different shape. What the hell good am I? I am a soldier who never wins the fights that matter, and a doctor who can't save the people he cares about. These facts still haunt me to this day, so you can imagine how deeply they cut at the time. I felt like giving up. How much can a man take before breaking?

Sherlock and I had tea, then I said I needed to be alone and went to my room. I didn't turn on the light, just let myself drop onto my bed, willing the whole world to disappear. When my head hit the pillow, though, I felt something there that I wasn't expecting. I felt around for it. It was an envelope. I flicked on the light and examined it. Nothing was written on it. I opened it and pulled out the card it contained.

It was white and had a black magpie drawn in the middle of it. The phantom hand hadn't left since the fateful night I'd lost my family, and now it held on a notch tighter, if possible. I turned the card around.

 _I'm so sorry, John._

 _From : Me_

 _To : Just You_

That was the last straw. I broke down, holding the card in my hands, wanting to crumple it, to tear it to pieces, to burn it. How dare he, after everything? How dare he say he was sorry I'd lost my family, when he was probably gloating? How dare he pretend to care about me after he'd made me watch my best friend commit suicide?

How dare he stay away when I needed him?

I must have cried myself to sleep because I don't remember much else from that night. All I know is that I woke up the next morning still holding the now tear-stained card. I was too exhausted to get angry again. I just shoved it into the drawer of my nightstand. It's still there now.

* * *

 **So, I kind of depressed myself with that chapter.**

 **Thank you, as always, for reading, I'll see you guys next time!**

 **nerwende**


	12. Not alone

_Oh no love! you're not alone_

 _No matter what or who you've been_

 _No matter when or where you've seen_

 _All the knives seem to lacerate your brain_

 _I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain_

 _You're not alone !_

David Bowie, _Rock 'n' roll suicide_

* * *

One of the biggest lies in life, when you lose someone close, is "It gets better". It doesn't. Because their dying is one thing, their staying dead is another.

I remember talking to the wife of a patient of mine, about five years ago. Her husband had died on the table due to complications. I sat with her as she cried, and tried every cliché comfort in the book. Of course the "It gets better" came up. She looked up at me, tear tracks coursing down her cheeks and said, "Really? When?" I couldn't answer that question. And that's because it doesn't get _better_.

There will never be a time when thinking about the ones you've lost won't tear at your heart. You will never look back on that moment you realized they were gone and make your peace with it. You brain will never be able to fully process the enormity of their passing.

Weeks, months later, after I'd move back into Baker Street, I would still wake up in the morning and expect to find Mary lying next to me. I would come home and call out, "I'm here!" the way I did with her. Sherlock told me I once sleepwalked my way downstairs. I was fumbling around the sitting room, and when he asked me what I was doing, I kept saying, "The baby's crying, I lost the baby, I've got to find the baby."

This made for an exhausted awakening the next day and an overly worried flatmate for about a week. Everyone was giving me worried glances all the time. Even Mycroft. I had a feeling they were all wondering when I would snap. All the same, I appreciated the concern. It did help to know I wasn't alone in this.

I kept a few things of Mary's – her wedding ring, her favorite books, her perfume – and gave away the rest. I didn't keep any of the baby's things. They were never really hers in the first place, they were meaningless. But I did keep the last ultrasounds, because it was as close to pictures as I would ever get. I remembered looking at them and pretending to know what was what. Medical degree or not, I'm just as clueless in front of ultrasounds as most people. I remember thinking it didn't matter, soon I'd have that tiny person for real so who cares about that blurry, black and white piece of paper? If only I'd known.

I keep all these things in my nightstand except for the wedding ring, which joined my old dog tags on the chain around my neck. The ultrasound sits on top of the card with the magpie on it. That's appropriate. Looking at them produces the same hollow feeling in my chest, though for entirely different reasons. They feel like different lives I've lived.

So no, it doesn't get better. You just learn to live with it. Just like my old shoulder wound, sometimes the pain is a burning one and you just want to curl up into a ball and let it consume you. Sometimes it's more manageable, but it still pulses every time you think you can forget about it, just to remind you that you can't. And sometimes it's reduced to a dull ache and you realize you can actually live with it for a moment.

It took me six months before I noticed I'd gone through a whole day without once sitting down and feeling sorry for myself. Then I gradually stopped reaching for Mary's hand in my sleep. I stopped hearing phantom baby cries. I wasn't getting better. I was acclimating. And the worst part, the most twisted thing is, I felt guilty for it. At first it didn't feel right for me to keep on living after them.

But, as previously stated, I wasn't alone. It wasn't fair to give up when I had people around me who cared, people who had already lost a friend when Mary died. So I did what every British person is told to do at least once in their life : keep calm and carry on. Or at least I tried. It involved a few adjustments, though.

For years after the army I'd been unable to sleep if my gun wasn't under my pillow, but after I found myself staring at it longer that I should have, I started leaving it in the living room. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at me when I got downstairs in the middle of the night to dump the gun on the coffee table without a word, but I caught him glancing at me occasionally. I'd never heard him ask me the question "Are you alright?" so much before.

But that wasn't the worst of it. I grew reckless on cases. Why not? I'd decided I wasn't going to kill myself, but if something did happen to me I really didn't mind. Sherlock grew increasingly nervous until, one night, I ran straight into a burning house before he could stop me. I managed to save the client's children but got out with third degree burns on my hands and a pretty serious case of smoke inhalation.

The moment I was out of the hospital, Sherlock announced in a non-equivocal voice that I wasn't welcome on cases anymore. "What the hell are you talking about?" I told him incredulously, "Do you even know how much I need them?

\- That's what worries me," he said firmly, "I'm not going to provide you with a convenient assisted suicide."

What more was there to say? All I was allowed to do on cases was the research and the blogging. Sherlock permanently confiscated my gun and gave me as little information as possible, to make sure I wouldn't try to follow. I tried it one time anyway, only to have a black car block my way and Not-Anthea poke her head out, talking to her Blackberry, "Mister Holmes says to go back home, John." I fumed all the way back home and ended up posting a rather rude blog entry, which Sherlock basically deleted himself. "Even I had never suggested my brother do that with his umbrella, John", he told me with a smirk, in an obvious attempt at humor. It didn't work.

On the anniversary of Mary and the baby's death, I grew restless. Sherlock was away on a case, which I hated him for. Then Mrs. Hudson started fussing over me, asking me if I was alright every five minutes, pushing tea and biscuits at me and trying to get me to talk about my feelings. I had to get out of the flat before I started hating her, too.

With my familial background, it came as no surprise that my footsteps led me to a pub. I was finishing my third pint – in ten minutes' time no less – when someone sat down in the seat across from me. I glared at the new comer. "You've got a lot of nerves, Moriarty," I growled, sipping at my Guinness.

Jim nodded, "It's been said. By you, I might add." He gestured to the waiter, pointed at my drink and then at himself. The waiter nodded and went to fetch his order.

"Hiding in plain sight again?" I asked casually, because I knew that if I started getting angry I would probably end up tearing the place down. Anger management had never been one of my strong suits, especially at the time.

Jim smiled, "It's the best cover there is. People don't _expect_ me to turn up in a pub. Especially not looking like this," he gestured at his hipster glasses, brown leather jacket, Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and ripped jeans.

I scoffed. "You do know you're not fifteen, right?" He actually chuckled at that, and I should have felt guilty for befriending the monster again, but I just didn't have the energy.

The waiter set the pint in front of Jim and left without a word, perhaps sensing the tension at the table. Jim grabbed his glass, took a large gulp and put it back down with a satisfied sigh. "I haven't had one of these in a while," he said, mostly to himself. His eyes travelled up to meet mine. "How are you doing, John?" he asked, and I silently vowed that the next person who would ask me that, no matter who it was, was getting their head kicked in.

"Living the dream," I deadpanned.

He nodded, looking away. "Fair enough. Stupid question."

He started toying with his glass and I devoted my attention to downing mine. As soon as it was empty, I gestured the waiter over. "I'm going to need something stronger if I have to have this conversation. What's your oldest scotch?"

Jim raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing. I told the waiter to bring me the whole bottle, and moment later I was pouring myself an unreasonable helping of scotch, especially for someone who had started off with three pints. When Jim finished his own drink he reached out for the bottle, but I snatched it away from him. "Get your own," I mumbled.

He let his hand fall back on the table. "You do a great impression of your father," he remarked, which I gratified with a "Fuck you." Not the most articulate of comebacks, but at this point I was past trying to play his game.

There ensued an animated conversation which I only partially remember. I know I yelled at him for killing my best friend, but he pointed out that he hadn't, after all. I said that the intention was bad enough, but he said that I'd forgiven said "so-called friend" as he put it, so why not forgive _him_?

When the bottle was half-empty I told him that at least my friend wouldn't kill someone I cared about. He said that leaving an army veteran with latent PTSD and a compulsive fear of abandonment alone on a day like this was as bad as tying the noose for him. I said that it was his own fault I was left alone, he said I could have just followed him.

By the time only a quarter of the bottle was left, the subject had morphed into Mary and the baby. Jim said he had kept an eye on me – of _course_ he had – and that if Magnussen hadn't been dead already, he would gladly have taken care of him himself. He also said he meant the condoleances I received.

The one bit I remember clearly was when I asked, "Does that make you feel better?", gesturing at him with my glass, "Is everything supposed to be forgiven now? Do you expect me to believe that you actually care?" I downed my glass in one go, "That you _love_ me?" I barked out a laugh to emphasize the absurdity of the concept.

Jim stared at me, his head swaying slightly from side to side in that familiar odd gesture. He bent forward slightly, putting his elbows on the table and entertwining his fingers. "No, John, I don't expect you to believe that." Maybe my heavily inibriated state played tricks on me, or maybe because of it Jim had decided to let his guard down for once. But I'm willing to swear anywhere that his voice was shaking and his eyes were shinier than usual. "But I want you to realize something: I _waited_."

He cleared his throat, giving his words time to sink in, "I waited for you. When I first thought of coming back I saw that you had Mary. That you were happy. So I backed down. Then dear old Sherlock came back, but I did nothing. When you lost both wife and daughter, I gave you time to heal."

He sat back, grabbed the bottle from me and drank the rest of the scotch. He loudly put the bottle down on the table and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I never wait for anything or anyone, John," he muttered, "But I waited for you."

The rest of the night is a blur. I retain some flashes of Jim helping me up, the cold air hitting me as we exited the bar, the walk home, Jim holding my arm around his shoulders in support, his voice asking if Sherlock was home and the ill-advised shake of the head I gave, the fastidious walk up the seventeen steps, the rush to the bathroom just in time, Jim's cool hand on my forehead while my head leaned against his chest without my consent, David Bowie staring up at me from the dark fabric, the warm softness of my comforter, a hand combing through my hair and the words "I'll alway wait for you" whispered in my ear and then... nothing.

When I woke up the next morning, I found aspirin and a glass of water on my nightstand, and a bucket at the foot of the bed. I looked down at myself and saw Jim had stripped me to my pants and undershirt. My clothes were neatly folded on the chair next to the door.

I took the medicine, got into my pajama trousers and padded downstairs. I found Sherlock making breakfast, which was enough to startle me. When he met my questioning gaze, he mumbled something about Mrs. Hudson giving him hell for leaving me alone on The Anniversary. The breakfast was an apology – _that's what people do, don't they ?_ – and I wordlessly accepted it. I was in no position to hold a grudge at him. Not when I found myself wishing it was Jim and not him I was having breakfast with.

* * *

 **Jim is back it town! What will that mean for John?**

 **Thank you for reading, and again special thanks to my faithful reviewers. You know who you are!**

 **nerwende**


	13. The death of me

_I think I'm drowning, asphyxiating_

 _I wanna break the spell that you've created_

 _You're something beautiful, a contradiction_

 _I wanna play the game, I want the friction_

 _You will be the death of me_

 _Yeah, you will be the death of me_

Muse, _Time is running out_

* * *

It took about six months for what little control I had over myself to snap. Sherlock still wasn't letting me accompany him on cases, Mrs. Hudson was still fussing over me, everyone from Lestrade to Harry to Molly Hooper to Stamford was asking me if I was alright – and no, I didn't kick anyone's head in – and I could feel myself going insane. What Sherlock did to protect me, he didn't realize it was the last straw. I was like an addict, struggling through withdrawal, waiting for the final push to give in to my poison of choice. God knows he knows he should have recognized the symptoms.

His new case had taken him out of London, and I had been sitting at home for far too long. He'd told me he would be gone for about three days and taken off without waiting for an answer. This total lack of trust and consideration was possibly the push I was talking about, although he can't be held responsible for my own darkness.

As it were, I found myself stuffing clothes inside a duffle bag and telling Mrs. Hudson I was going to visit my family for a few days and would be back a bit before Sherlock. She hugged me and said it was probably best for me to have a change of scenery anyway. She said she was proud of me for not letting things get me down. I briefly wondered how proud she would have been if she'd known.

I got out in the pouring rain and started walking, the idea of taking a cab not even coming to mind. I was in some sort of transe, not allowing myself to think or feel. I felt empty, numb. I couldn't even feel the cold water seeping through my clothes.

I blinked when I found myself in front of the familiar door, wondering how and when I'd gotten there. The journey from Baker Street to The House is still a mystery to me. I fumbled to get the key – which had never left my keychain anyway – and let myself in. I hadn't called or texted Jim, so I had no idea if he was there or not. But sure enough, as I made my way up the second flight of stairs, I heard soft footsteps – barefoot – come up to the landing.

I looked up to find Jim, in a white t-shirt and grey tracksuit trousers, his hair tousled. He'd just woken up. He said nothing, just blinked at me in confusion, probably wondering what on earth I was doing there. Seeing him like this, this dishevelled appearance that only I have ever seen, in this house where we had so many memories, made my heart clench with a feeling of _home_.

I walked up the rest of the steps, letting my bag fall to the ground, then captured his lips with mine. He was so surprised he didn't react at first, but as I was about to pull away his arms shot up to cross behind my neck and he pulled me in, kissing me fiercely.

He gave a small hiss as my own arms wrapped about him and his t-shirt was soaked with cold water. "You're freezing," he said as he pulled away with a breathy laugh. "Did you walk all the way here?" I shrugged and he shook his head, "Well come in, you idiot."

I let him lead me inside. He rambled about me being reckless because, what if he hadn't been alone? What if he hadn't been there at all? What if Holmes had seen me? And why on God's green earth would I walk there in the rain without so much as an umbrella? All while he was getting me a change of clothes – "good thing we wear the same size!" – and pushed me into the bathroom.

I emerged five minutes later, wearing his black jeans and navy blue sweatshirt. I was already considerably warmer, but he wasn't done. He pushed a cup of tea in my hand and wrapped a blanket around me. He then ordered me to sit down on the couch, drink tea and get warm while he went and got dressed himself. I obeyed numbly, still silent. I caught him glancing worriedly at me as he left the room, but he went on without a word.

Sitting there, I considered the blanket around me, the mug warming my hands a little too much, the clothes I was wearing, all proof that Jim was actually fussing but trying to act flippant. I almost got angry, because I hadn't come there to be fussed over. I could have had that at home. But then, what _had_ I wanted? I didn't know. I just needed the numbness to stop.

Tears fell onto my hands before I even realized their presence and when I wiped them away, more came to replace them. I heard an uneasy cough and looked up to find Jim, wearing jeans and a black jumper, holding his own cup of tea. I used my – his – sleeve to dry my eyes and watched him as he made his way toward the couch.

Only then did I realize he was slower than usual, and he was limping slightly. He sat sideways on the couch, leaning his back against the arm-rest and gingerly crossing his legs. The motion pulled up the right leg of his trousers, revealing a rather angry bruise on his ankle. I was about to ask about it, but he had caught me staring and beat me to it. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said in his best London accent, "But I'm afraid my walk has become rather sillier recently."

He looked up at me, his lips curling up into his trademark smirk. I stared at him for a second when the absurdity of his Monty Python quote in this situation hit me and I burst into laughter, quickly joined by Jim's own giggle. Some distant part of my mind recognized that my laugh was bordering on hysterical, but I didn't care, it felt good to laugh again.

"What happened?" I asked breathily when I could finally get a hold of myself.

He swallowed his mouthful of tea and shrugged, "Some people get sensitive when they realize they've been tricked, dunno why. And sometimes they vow to get revenge, sometimes they're petty enough to stomp on your ankle."

The doctor side of me kicked in and, after setting my cup on the coffee table, I pulled Jim's injured leg to rest it across my lap. He sighed exasperatedly but didn't try to resist. I gently prodded at the area, asking him how long ago it had happened – about twelve hours – and if he'd put any ice on it – yes, Doctor. It was obviously just a sprain. When I was satisfied there shouldn't be any complications, I grabbed my tea again and sat back, my free hand rubbing abstenmindedly at Jim's leg.

He was talking, but I wasn't really listening. All I could think of was that this was not how it was supposed to be. After everything, I shouldn't have run back to him, I shouldn't have been drinking tea with him and this certainly shouldn't feel right.

I gulped down the rest of my tea and before I could make one more move, Jim grabbed the cup from my hands, set it back on the coffee table and then he was kissing me hungrily, slipping the blanket off of my shoulders and running his hands under my clothes.

I gasped into his mouth and I felt him smile. "Sorry, darling," he purred, "You were thinking too much."

I gave a humorless laugh, "I shouldn't be here," I mumbled as I sat perfectly still, not encouraging him but not pushing him away either.

He knelt in front of me, towering over me and resting his right hand on my left shoulder as his left, as ever, found its way through my hair. He looked me in the eyes and suddenly I found the intense gaze that had first made me fall for him. Whatever was going to come out of his mouth, I realised, could probably determine the rest of our lives.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he said, his voice lower than usual, "Tell me to leave you alone forever and I will."

And of course, I didn't. Of course.

I woke up the next morning in his bed – our bed – and turned to face Jim. He was lying on his side, his hand rubbing softly at my arm as he stared at me. I'm not entirely sure he even realised he was doing it. I felt the hole in my chest throb. This was the first time since Mary that I'd been with someone, and it had to be him.

He didn't seem entirely at ease either. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. I cleared my throat. "What now?" I asked, more to break the silence than as a real question.

He sighed, looked away, then shrugged. "I don't know."

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, torn between wanting to put distance between us and needing to stay right there with him. "I think it's the first time I've ever heard you say that," I said, once again grasping for humor in an impossible situation.

He grinned, "I'm glad I can still surprise you after almost ten years." I laughed despite myself, but stopped when I noticed his eyes didn't reflect his smile. He stretched and sat up with a yawn. "So, where do we go from here, John? What was that all about? Is this you choosing me?"

His face was carefully guarded, but I still saw his features fall a little when I shook my head. He didn't see surprised at all, just disappointed. "You're choosing Sherlock, then," he said as though he'd expected nothing else. I shook my head again. "Stalemate," he scoffed. "You can't have both, John."

It was my turn to shrug. "It's not like you're both applying for the same position in my life, is it?"

He shook his head incredulously and sat up, rubbing at the side of his scar with the tips of his fingers. His scar. The one I'd put there. He caught me looking, and once again he knew exactly what I was thinking, because he let his hand drop and said, "'Tis but a scratch," which made me smile again.

"So," he said after clearing his throat, "What you're telling me is, you're willing to try having a completely dysfunctional, incredibly perilous, insanely reckless relationship with me? Run the risk of having one or both of the Holmes brothers find out that you are the lover of the most dangerous man in England? And all that for what?" He looked away again, and his gaze grew distant. "For a man that can't possibly give you what you need."

I sat up as well, pondering his words. "I don't care," I said finally, "I don't care how crazy or dangerous it is. I'm done trying to do what's right, it never got me anything but pain.

\- This can't get you anything else.

\- No, but at least this time I'll know I deserved it."

This had come out wrong, and he seemed to flinch at these words, so I tried it again. "Look, all I know, all I need to know is that I want this. I don't care how long we have, I just want to have it. Besides," I added with a smile, trying to sight more casual than I felt, "If someone as unimportant as me has managed to get the attention of a genius like you, who am I to turn it down?"

But he didn't laugh. In fact, his eyes grew impossibly darker and his back stiffened. "Never say that again," he hissed tightly, "You are many thing, John Watson, but unimportant isn't one of them." He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I don't know how you do it, John," he mumbled sleepily, letting hand fall to his sides, "I don't know how you get people to care. All I know is after the Fall I swore I would never pursue you again. I kept telling myself you weren't worth my time.

\- I kept telling myself I didn't need you and never wanted to see you again."

He snorted and turned back to me. "Look at us now." His hand found the back of my neck and started gently massaging it. "I guess we just need each other," he whispered. I blinked at him and saw he looked every bit as defeated as I felt.

He gave me a sad smile and went on. "There's nothing I can promise you, John. I won't stop doing what I do and I know you won't end your association with Sherlock. We have him, his brother and pretty much every criminal in the world that doesn't work for me to look out for. This can't end well, no matter how you look at it. There will be no safety, no stability, no lasting comfort. All I can offer you is me, for what it's worth. The question is, are you alright with that?"

He scrutinized me, and I could tell he was actually nervous what my answer would be. But I knew there wasn't really a question to begin with. This was always how things were going to end. I was too tired to pretend I didn't want this. Let's face it, I'm just as messed up as he is.

I leaned in and kissed him lightly, then buried my head in the crook of his neck. "You will be the death of me," I whispered. I felt his arms wrap around me and his chest heave a deep sigh. "Likewise."

* * *

 **John seems pretty set on staying with Jim. Where could that possibly lead?**

 **Thanks for reading, see you guys next time!**

 **nerwende**


	14. Point of no return

_Past the point of no return, the final threshold_

 _The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn_

 _We've passed the point of no return_

The Phantom of the Opera, _Point of no return_

* * *

Jim and I were very conscious that we were on borrowed time, but somehow that suited us. I didn't care if we didn't have forever, forever was never something I believed in anyway. I took what I could get, and for a while it was more than enough. Besides, if I'm being perfectly honest, the wrongness of the situation and the very feeling of impending doom did add to the excitement of it.

In the end, Jim and I had eighteen months. Eighteen months we made the most of, not knowing when the fat lady was going to sing. We left each other cryptic messages in my examination room as before until one day I found a foreign phone on my desk. It turned out to be a gift from my considerate boyfriend. It was untraceable, and the one contact listed in it other than numbers from Saint Bart's was named E. Rigby. I laughed at that detail. If caught with this phone, I could always say it was my professional phone, and Rigby was the head of one of the departments or something like that. Now with a permanent, secret link, Jim and I made a point of checking it with each other as often as possible.

Don't start picturing romantic declarations, though. Our exchanges weren't exactly the stuff Jane Austen would have written about.

 _What are you doing? - JM_

 _Working. You? - JW_

 _Same. Patient or case? - JM_

 _Both. Do I want to know? - JW_

 _Probably not. Am I going to know? - JM_

 _Probably not. - JW_

 _Shame. - JM_

 _I'm surprised you even know what that word means. - JW_

 _Ha. Ha. - JM_

 _Dinner tonight? - JM_

 _Where? - JW_

 _Meet me at The Park at 1900. - JM_

 _But where will we be eating? - JW_

 _That, my dear, would be telling. - JM_

 _You better not kill/hurt/blackmail anyone for this. - JW_

 _Thought hasn't even occurred. So, you're in? - JM_

 _I'll be there. - JW_

 _Put on the suit I bought you. - JM_

 _You're not the boss of me. - JW_

 _Is that a yes? - JM_

 _... Yes. - JW_

And then the same evening we would be having dinner in Florence, or Barcelona, or Paris. It did help to be with someone who owned a jet. Well, I'm not entirely sure he _owned_ it so much as hijacked it, but since we have our own "don't ask don't tell" policy, I might never find out. And I'm surprisingly okay with that.

The good thing about living with Sherlock is that I could leave the flat and say I won't be back for three days and get away with it. Sherlock didn't ask questions. Sometimes he didn't even notice I was gone. I would have been hurt if it hadn't served my interest so well.

Fake medical convention invitations made their way into our mail though, and as soon as I confirmed my presence a plane ticket would follow. I must credit Jim for his expertise in forgery. I didn't see through the first one, but in time I learned to look for the magpie watermark. About a week later I'd pack a suitcase, get on the designated flight, check into the hotel referenced in the letter and meet Jim in the invariably fancy bedroom.

In the eighteen months where things were going our way we drank champagne on a boat on the Nile, saw _La Bohème_ at the Scala in Milan, wandered down the famous Japanese gardens in Tokyo, celebrated Christmas in New York and New Year in Rome, and much more. All these experiences were incredible, but the memory I like the best happened here in London and couldn't have cost nearly as much.

It was the night Jim took me to see _The Phantom of the Opera_ at Her Majesty's Royal Theatre. Jim and I sat in our booth and I sometimes had to look over at him, enjoying the look of pure entrancement on his face. His eyes were fixed on the stage, but his head was swaying softly in time with the music. He always did get very intense when it came to music.

When the Phantom raged and despaired after Christine chose Raoul at the end of act one, Jim's hands were tense on his lap. When the chandelier fell onto the stage, he sniggered under his breath and I nudged him to signal that this was A Bit Not Good. When the Phantom and Christine sang the sulphurous _Point of no return,_ I couldn't resist leaning in and whispering filthy nothings in his ear, enjoying his sharp intakes of breath and the way he shifted in his seat in a vain attempt to hide the shivers that ran through him. He ended up shushing me, but I could see a glint of amusement in eyes.

But with the final confrontation, with the Phantom threatening to kill Raoul if Christine didn't go with him, I felt Jim's hand found mine and entertwined our fingers, holding on tightly. I looked over at him, but his eyes were glued to the actors, his features betraying nothing. When the Phantom admitted defeat, letting Christine escape with Raoul, giving up on his love for her sake, Jim's hand gave a slight tremor.

And as the cast came to take a bow and the audience stood up and applauded, I thought I saw Jim's eyes glisten. He caught me watching and gave me a quick, shaky smile before taking my hand again and leading me out of the booth. I never mentioned it. It was the first time I saw Jim be moved by fiction. But then, retrospectively, I realise it did hit pretty close to home.

It wasn't very late when we exited the theater, so we decided to go for a walk along the Thames. Knowing Mycroft had cameras everywhere in the city, we quickly escaped through small streets and got out of the center. Our hands clasped together, we took our time walking along the Thames, enjoying the warm summer night air. Jim's face was more peaceful than I'd seen it in a long time. I could tell by the soft and distant look in his eyes that his mind was replaying the music we'd just enjoyed. I couldn't help the warm feeling of affection that gripped my heart as I looked at him, but I had long since stopped trying anyway.

I tried so hard to let myself enjoy the moment, but I couldn't stop my racing thoughts. I told you, I'm really bad at enjoying the good and really good at focusing on the bad. "Do you ever wish things were different?" I blurted out after a while.

He frowned and made us slow down a bit, "What things?

\- This. Us. The situation," I said, vaguely gesturing between us, "I don't know... Do you ever wish we were... _normal_?"

He looked away and swayed his head, pondering the question. When he looked back at me, a smirk made its way on his lips. "Normal's boring.

\- Right," I laughed half-heartedly. Should have anticipated that.

I would have left it at that, but I saw Jim's smile fade. A couple of silent seconds passed, though it wasn't as comfortable as before. Just when I was about to curse myself for ruining everything,I heard him heave a sigh and whisper, "Constantly."

My heart seemed to swell within my chest, and before I could stop myself I whispered, "I love you." It was the first time I'd told him that since his confession to me. First time in years.

I felt the slightest of squeese around my hand a second before he whispered, "Just you," so faintly I almost missed it.

I couldn't stand the sadness in his voice, so I went for a joke. "Do you know, you're actually my very own Phantom."

He snorted, shaking his head before turning to look at me. "Am I, now?

\- Well, you're smart, dark, talented, and you get murderous when you don't get your way." I widened my eyes and gaped in mock realisation, "Dear God, does that make me Christine?"

He laughed again, this time whole-heartedly. "There are worse things in the world. After all," he said, pointedly touching the back of his head where his hair was getting thinner, "Christine does have the better hair."

We ended up giggling like schoolboys, with Jim adding that in this scenario, Sherlock would probably be the Carlotta, "insufferable drama queen that he is!"

To this day that night remains one of my favorite memories with Jim. Then there were also our nights in. We'd got to his house and sat on the floor, eating our takeaway above the coffee table, before curling up on the couch to watch telly. We did this at least once a week, every Saturday. Even world class criminals like _Doctor Who._

At some point Jim's left elbow always ended up resting on my left shoulder, his forearm against my chest. My head would rest against the crook of his neck or his chest, and if I concentrated I could hear his heartbeat over the television. And then I'd wake up a couple of hours later, with Jim giggling as I fumed because I'd missed half of the episode.

Once though, he was the one who fell asleep and I let him, just to be able to give him the whole, "See how annoying that is?" when he woke up. But in the end, when he blinked his way back to consciousness and rubbed sleepily at his eyes – which I may or may not have found adorable – I just smiled, took his hand and let him to bed. Those were my favorite parts of our relationships. The moments that were so normal that I almost believed everything was going to be alright. That we had all the time in the world.

Then, as they say, things took a turn for the worse.

It started off with little things. Sherlock started asking what was taking me away from the flat every weekend. I pretended that I had an arrangement with Harry and I even went so far as to brief her. It led to an awkward conversation in which I told her I was with a guy, but he was somewhat famous – which is at least a bit true – and he was still in the closet, so no one could ever know who he was and could she please please please cover up for me? Fortunately, she agreed, giving me a wink and a nudge, and it was all I could do not to roll my eyes at her.

So I had that alibi, but I wondered why Sherlock was asking. I was worried he might be onto us. When I told Jim, he just said, "If he were onto us, we'd know it by now. He's just upset he's not the center of your universe anymore."

I gave him a rueful smile, "Not that he knows what's actually at the center of the universe." Jim laughed delightedly, but I still felt uneasy.

Then a few weeks later I was walking home from work and a black car – _black!_ – stopped next to me. I sped up instinctively, but suddenly all I could see was black as something covered my face. A hood. I struggled, feeling two set of arms grip mine and I was forced back into the car, where my hands were cuffed behind my back. I said nothing and sat still, waiting for my time to strike.

After an incredibly long car ride – they must have been going round and round so I couldn't try to figure out the way – I was pushed out of the car. I thanked my escort by elbowing one of them right in the diaphragm and head-butting the other. I was probably way too satisfied when I felt his nose crack. But they weren't the only two members of this little operation, and I heard more rush towards me.

I tried to kick and shove my way out of it, but there's only so much a blinded and restrained man can do against something like seven men trying to sudbue him. All too soon I fell to the ground, pulling my knees up against my chest, trying to protect my ribs as blow after blow fell upon me. It seemed to go on for an hour, but eventually they stopped, picked me up and dragged me in some sort of warehouse. By the way, note to the criminal world : warehouses are overdone. Really, find something else.

I was forced to sit on a chair, to which I was strapped and finally left alone. I gave myself a jolst, but the blasted thing seemed to be bolted to the ground. I heard a faint voice – probably from behind the door – making a phone call. And then there was nothing to do but wait.

I must have dozed off, because I was startled when the door opened again. I heard the same voice speaking excitedly to whoever was making his quick way into the room. "We caught him on the street, boss. I know you didn't give us the order, but I thought you'd like the surprise." I scoffed. What am I, a Christmas present? The man went on, "He did a bit of damage when we brought him in. He's a feisty bastard."

The other man scoffed. "That's what you get for underestimating your opponent. Or are you just overestimating yourselves?"

I would have laughed when I heard that voice. A moment later the hood was pulled from my face and I blinked up at Jim Moriarty, giving him my best snarl as he grinned manically at me. "My, my, Doctor Watson," he sing-songed, "We _do_ have to stop meeting like this."

I swallowed hard, my eyes murderous, "I'm fine with us never meeting again at all. Untie me and I'll take care of it."

He laughed the same way he had when he'd come back to the pool for his encore, then turned to his henchmen. "Ain't he sweet?" he looked down at me and though his grin was still intact, I could see his eyes scanning me, trying to gauge the damage that had been done to me. Finally he turned his head, calling over his shoulder, "I would like to speak with the Good Doctor for a little while. So much catching up to be done."

The men looked at each other, uneasy. "Are you sure, boss? I mean... He's pretty sneaky, that one, and..."

Jim turned fully to look at them, probably fixing them his darkest look. "I wasn't asking for your permission, nor your opinion," he growled. Then, looking at the one standing next to the door, he barked, "Out! Now!" They wouldn't have left faster if the hounds of hell had been chasing them.

As soon as we were alone, Jim pulled a jacknife from his pockets and rushed to my side, working sternly on the ropes. "Are you alright?" he asked, and he sounded to much like Sherlock had, that time Jim and I had played let's-pretend-I-want-to-blow-up-my-ex-boyfriend that I had to stifle a laugh.

"I've been better," I said honestly as my cuts and bruises protested against my movements. A frown appeared on Jim's face so I added quickly, "Been worse too, though." My left hand was freed, and I shook it a little to help blood find its way to my fingertips Why do henchmen alway have to tie knots so _tight_?

Jim wasted no time on working on the other hand, his eyes glued to the rope. "I had nothing to do with this," he mumbled, "They took the liberty. Wanted to... surprise me."

I nodded, "Yeah, I heard." The rope snapped under his last, aggressive cut. I pretended not to notice when his hand lingered on my wrist a bit longer than necessary. He kneeled in front of me to work on my ankles. I decided to break the silence. "It's okay, though," I said lamely, "All part of the thrill of dating the world's only consulting criminal, I guess."

He scoffed but said nothing. He had yet to look me in the eyes. That unnerved me, but I was also secretly pleased. He was genuinely upset that his men had hurt me.

Both ropes fell to the ground and he straightened up, brushing the knees of his trousers absentmindedly. "I'll leave in a minute," he said, placing the knife in my hand, "I'll have a couple of men standing guard in the hall. Feel free to kill them on your way out.

\- I bet you say that to all the boys." He still wasn't looking at me, but at least the joke made him laugh. It was something. "Thanks," I added, standing up, "But I'll pass if I can avoid it.

\- Suit yourself," he shrugged, "I'll have them executed for letting you escape, anyway." Don't feel bad," he added quickly when I groaned, "They're the worst human beings you could ever meet."And that's saying something, considering your tastes in men." He shook his head, "You wouldn't believe the things they've done.

\- I don't want to know, "I reminded him, holding up a hand. He nodded, looking at the wall.

He fidgeted a bit, his head swaying, and I realized he was struggling for words. "Jim, look at me," I said softly, putting a hand on his arm. He obeyed, his eyes troubled. "It's okay," I said, "I don't blame you."

He gave me a half smile. "I'm still sorry."

That was a first. I had never heard Jim Moriarty apologize for anything. I crossed the small distance between us, using my fingertips to steady his chin, "Don't be," I said before kissing him. He kissed me back, his right arm traveling up my back to give me a light squeezed, but I hissed under his touch. One of his men had kicked me between the shoulder blades and that area was still tender.

Jim broke off the kiss at the sound and stepped back, looking like I'd bitten him or something. "It's okay," I said quickly, but he was already making a beeline to the door.

"Count to a hundred before leaving," he said, trying but failing to sound light-hearted, and a second later he was gone.

I did count to a hundred, purely to occupy myself, left, knocked out the two guards so easily I was disappointed, then made my way out of the warehouse. Funny enough, I hadn't been walking for a full five minutes when a cab pulled up right beside me. I smiled to myself and climbed in, asking to be dropped off at Baker Street. I didn't even have a fare to pay, apparently.

When Sherlock asked me what had happened, I told him that a bunch of kids had tried to mug me, that I'd managed to fight them off but they got away. No, I didn't seem their faces clearly. No, I wasn't sure how many of them there were. Yes, I was alright. No, I didn't need to go to the hospital.

Jim sulked and fussed for a while after that. He kept saying that he never meant for me to get hurt, that he wouldn't let it happen again. I kept saying I wasn't holding him responsible, but he still wouldn't be completely appeased. I wouldn't either, to be honest. We both knew that things like that would keep happening.

But knowing this didn't prepare us for that night in July. The night Mycroft Holmes' men invaded one of Jim's hideaways, with both of us inside.

* * *

 **Oh I'm sorry, am I leaving you hanging?**

 **Well it looks like the respite is over, what will become of our heroes now?**

 **nerwende**


	15. You've got to lose to know how to win

_Yeah, I know nobody knows_

 _Where it comes and where it goes_

 _I know it's everybody's sin_

 _You got to lose to know how to win_

Aerosmith, _Dream on_

* * *

I was just back from a weekend in Quebec City, reeking of _The Black Dahlia_ Jim had made sure to rub on me – in the sense that he put it on and hugged me long enough for the scent to transfer – and feeling pretty giddy, when I got to the living room to find the Holmes brothers in yet another staring contest.

I sighed, feeling like someone had dumped ice on me after a hot bath, and took my time taking off my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. "Good morning, John," Mycroft said, his trademark smug smile on his lips, "I see the charms of Canada did you a world of good."

I played innocent, as usual, "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft fixed me a sharp stare, "You went to that medical convention of yours, and got a little extra..." he pretended to fumble for words, "Enlightment, shall we say, judging by your smell and the lipstick stain on your collar." Ah, the lipstick. I had a very hard time not laughing when Mycroft's remark reminded me of Jim putting on lipstick and kissing me on the neck. The mark was small, but of course Mycroft caught it. Jim is nothing if not a perfectionnist.

Sherlock unknowingly came to my rescue by sighing dramatically, "Yes, Mycroft, we're all very happy that John got laid. Can we please move on?"

I rolled my eyes and went into the kitchen, using tea as an alibi to get away from the double scrutiny. The last thing I wanted right now was to be looked at too closely. True Jim had taken care of everything, but I didn't want to take the chance. Besides, I had long since decided to show Mycroft Holmes that no, he didn't frighten me and no, his status didn't impress me, by purposefully not giving him the awe and respect he felt he deserved. When it came to petulant provocation, I'd had a good teacher.

"So, what brings you to our humble flat, Mycroft?" I called out from the kitchen. The fact that he was sitting a little more stiffly than before, coupled with the smirk on Sherlock's face told me that I'd managed to annoy him. Good.

I could just _hear_ his phony smile as he answered, "Call it a social visit.

\- Really? Oh boy, to what do we owe the extreme pleasure?" I deadpanned.

A sharp intake of breath reached my ear as I put the kettle on, and Sherlock giggled under his breath. Mycroft stood up and came to linger in the kitchen doorway. I had no doubt he was fixing me the _I could have you dead in a minute, you peasant_ look, but I really didn't want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Not that I ever did.

He cleared his throat, "In fact, I should get going. I have quite a lot on my plate today."

Sherlock's voice piped up, feigning interest, "Really? Do tell us more, Mycroft."

It was my turn to laugh, but this time Mycroft smiled triumphantly. "We have found the headquarter of one Jim Moriarty," he said.

I almost dropped the mug I'd been holding. I turned to see my shock reflected on Sherlock's face. "You have?" he asked, obviously irritated that his brother had the upper hand.

Mycroft nodded, "Took us months, but eventually we found it.

\- Where is it?" I asked as casually as I could while pouring the hot water in the mug. I had the faint hope that the British Government had it wrong, but it was only wishful thinking.

Mycroft made a face, "Somewhere in Soho, the dead end in Peter Street. Disappointingly obvious, I have to say. It even has a fake 'to let' sign on it to fool people into thinking there's nothing there. So pedestrian.

\- He always did favor the simplest tricks," Sherlock kindly reminded us, "Hiding in plain sight."

Mycroft shrugged. I played with the string of my tea bag to hide the tremor in my hands. "When is your team going to strike?" I asked in a tone I hoped wasn't too hesitant.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at me, but answered nonetheless. "They're currently circling the place, gathering weapons, making every last preparations. You've seen what that man is capable of, so we have to make sure we're ready for him. I estimate the strike in about two hours."

I nodded, threw my teabag in the bin and blew on my tea, casually making my way toward the stairs, "Well, make sure you get the bastard," I called over my shoulder, "And when you do, tell him John Watson said 'fuck you'." Sherlock's laugh is the last thing I heard as I walked up to my room.

As soon as I'd closed the door, I set the mug down and frantically dug out my secret phone from its hiding place, stabbing the screen as I summoned Jim's number and confirmed the call. One beep, two beeps, three beeps, four beeps, five beeps, and the last, higher beep that was the voicemail – Jim didn't have an answering machine message, obviously.

I hung up and called again. Same result. I tried a few more times, feeling myself growing more frantic with every failed attempt, nervously drinking my tea purely because Sherlock was downstairs and if he didn't smell the tea on my breath it would be suspicious. I started pacing my room, _thinkthinkthinkthinkthink._ I couldn't leave the flat now without drawing attention to myself. As previously stated, I'd spend quite a lot of time annoying Mycroft, and I had no doubt that if he had the slightest chance of paying me back in kinds, he would.

I was in the process of cursing myself when a perfectly valid alibi came to me. My regular phone was still downstairs. I picked up the other one and called Jenkins at the hospital. Jenkins is an idiot I had saved from making a colossal medical mistake that would have put an end to his career and possibly landed him in jail. In turn he swore his entire devotion to me and wouldn't stop telling me he was willing to do anything for me.

So naturally I started asking him to cover my shifts, introducing himself as Doctor Watson to patients and checking in for me. He looked nothing like me but as luck would have it, he was on the short side, had blond hair and blue eyes and absolutely no distinguishing feature. If given an physical description, most people wouldn't be able to tell who was who. He was so in awe with both me (his saviour) and Sherlock (his hero) that I could have him do anything by telling him it was for a case.

Not that I ever abused this power. It's purely hypothetical.

I called him and gave him precise instructions to call my regular phone. If someone else picked up – Ha, "If"! – he was to tell them that a medical emergency had occured with one of my usual patients and I was to come to the hospital immediately. When he started protesting, I added a stern, "It's for a case, Jenkins."

He dropped his voice to a staged whisper, saying "Got you, Doctor Watson." I told you he was an idiot.

I channeled my inner Jim Moriarty and added a, "And you better make it convincing, or all will be lost" for good measure before hanging up.

I counted seven seconds before I hear the faint sound of my phone ringing downstairs and I started praying. _Please pick it up, please ignore boundaries, please be a nosy bastard, please-_ the ringing stopped and Sherlock's voice reached me. I let out the breath I'd been holding, pocketed my secret phone and sat on the bed, downing the (cold) rest of my tea and waiting for Sherlock's call.

Sure enough, it came quickly. I forced myself to wait a second before getting up and opening the door, asking what had happened. He relayed to me the news that one of my patients had been taken in for a medical emergency. I asked him if he knew what it was, he said the doctor he had on the phone had refuse to tell him, invoquing the Hypocratic oath. I almost laughed. If Jenkins knew it was the Great Sherlock Holmes he'd just rebuked, _he'd_ be the next medical emergency.

I grabbed my things and rushed out of there, hailing a cab. I did ask the cabbie to drop me off around the corner but paid him extra to go all the way to the hospital, then I rushed to the station and took the Tube to Piccadilly. It was very time-wasting, but at least that way I had a chance to escape surveillance. In Piccadilly I took yet another cab to Peter Street, and finally I rushed through the door and ran up the stairs in search of Jim.

He was standing there, in the middle of the room, barking orders at his underlings but stopping mid-sentence when he saw me. Every weapon in the room was suddenly turned toward me but I couldn't care less, knowing that they wouldn't shoot without Jim's signal.

Jim gave me a strange look, then grinned, "Well, well, well, Doctor, how nice of you to drop by. Did you get lost on your way to the Theatre?"

A wave of snigger rose around me but I ignored them. "I wanted to talk to you, Moriarty. I have some information I think you'll find interesting.

\- Do you now?" he drawled, walking toward me excrutiatingly slowly, "Well, I wouldn't want to miss that, would I?" He grabbed me by the arm and started to lead me away.

One of his man called out to him, "Uh, boss, I think it might be a trap."

Jim stopped in his track and turned to sneer at him. "Leave the thinking to me, darling, you're not very good at it."

He dragged me out of the room into another one, the door of which he slammed before turning to me, his eyes wide. "Have you completely lost your mind?!" he hissed, getting right in my face, "What the hell are you doing here? What am I supposed to do now? I can't just let you go, it wouldn't make sense-"

I cut him off before he could go on, "You have much more to worry about than my presence here."

He cocked his head to the side, trying to understand my meaning before it visibly dawned on him. He stepped back, his face set as stone. "How long have I got?"

I looked at my watch, "An hour, maybe less."

He nodded, his gaze growing distant as he mentally planned his course of action. But I was too anxious to just wait in silence. "Why the hell weren't you answering your phone? I tried to warn you!

\- It's at the bottom of the Thames," he said, waving impatiently. Reaching his conclusion, he opened the door and called down, "Evacuate the building! Now!"

A frenzy of motion and muttering reached us as the order was followed. Jim closed the door again and walked up to stare out the window, watching as his men poured into the street. "We have to wait until they're gone. I don't trust any of them not to take advantage of the commotion to shoot you." I nodded tightly, coming up to stand next to him. He shook his head and muttered, "You still shouldn't have come, John. It's too risky for you.

\- If you think I would have left you alone to face Mycroft Holmes' goons again, you are dead wrong." He smiled and said nothing.

When the last man had left and silence had envelopped the house, I opened my mouth to said something but was interrupted by a loud bang, followed by rushing footsteps and shouts. My blood froze in my veins. Mycroft's men were early. Jim's head had whipped around at the sound and now he was looking as me, his mask nowhere to be seen as utter fear and concern took over his feature. I hear him whisper "No!" under his breath before he rushed to the bookcase in the corner, frantically dislodging the shelves and throwing them, books and all, to the ground.

When only the outside of the furniture remained, he pressed on the back board which emitted a _click_ before opening slightly. He pulled it off completely, revealing a hole in the wall. A secret passage. "Brilliant," I breathed, and he turned briefly to beam at me.

"Come on," he beckoned before entering the narrow hallway, and I ran up to follow. He made sure to turn and close the door, momentarily plunging both of us in darkness before I felt his hand reach into my pocket and the screen of my phone lit up. He took my hand, leading me down a steep flight of stairs as he held my phone high in front of himself to light our way.

I couldn't help myself, I started giggling. He briefly turned to me, a startled look on his face, but never slowed down. "What?" he barked, obviously irritated by my disregard for the décor. In lieu of reply, I started humming _The Phantom of the Opera_.

He shook his head but chuckled despite himself, muttering "You're an idiot." He did lower his arm slightly though, almost as if he was making a conscious effort not to look too much like the actor that night.

We ended up in a narrow tunnel and kept walking briskly. It was so small we had to pivot our shoulders slightly so we could fit the passage. Jim's thumb started stroking the back of my hand. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, "I know you don't cope well with enclosed spaces." That's when I realized my hands were shaking.

"It's fine," I said, my voice unsteady, "Where does this lead?

\- St Anne's

\- The church?

\- No, John, the sweet shop."

I punched his shoulder with my free hand. Sarcasm wassn't exactly what I needed from him right then and that's what I would have told him if he hadn't stopped abruptly and whipped around to look at me, his eyes wide. "Do you hear that?"

I strained my ears. A tinny _clank-clank-clank_ was coming our way, like something metallic falling down the stairs. My heart stopped for a second. I knew that sound. I'd heard it in Afghanistan. "Run!" I shouted, and without question he squeezed my hand tighter and broke into a run as I followed him, the stony walls scraping at our arms as we went.

The thing had reached the floor and rolled toward us for a moment before coming to a stop. I couldn't tell how close it was and frankly I didn't really want to find out. The tunnel showed no sign of ever ending and for a moment I thought that this was a nightmare. It certainly felt like a reunion of all my biggest fears.

Then the world exploded around me and I wasn't able to think anymore.

 _"-oh-!"_

 _"Joh-!"_

 _"JOHN!"_

My ears were ringing. I cracked my eyes open and immediately regretted it. My head was pounding, my body felt like one giant bruise and everything was dark. For a terrifying moment I thought I'd gone blind. But then a tiny rectangle of light appeared and was deposited on a piece of rock near my face as a silhouette leaned over me. "John, can you hear me?"

I was suddenly aware of fingers combing through my hair. Jim. I made a vaguely affirmative sound, blinking around me. The explosion had caused the tunnel to cave in, but fortunately we had been far away from the explosive to avoid the worst of it. The dust made me cough, which jarred my whole body and hurt like hell. I worked my jaw a couple of times to test its stability before rasping, "How long was I out?

\- Two minutes, twenty-three seconds."

Of course he'd been counting.

"Are you okay?" I asked. The fingers in my hair stilled abruptly as an incredulous laugh echoed in the rubble.

"Yes, I'm fine. What about you? Can you walk?" The fact that I didn't really have a choice didn't escape me. I lifted my right hand and patted myself down in a quick examination. Some places felt achy and tender, but my legs were still where I'd left them, so that was something.

I made to stand up and Jim helped me, and after a handful of hesitant seconds I nodded in satisfaction. Jim mirrored the gesture, picked up the phone, grabbed my hand – which hurt, but I said nothing – and resumed leading me forward, though this time he was obviously supporting me more than anything. "Not much longer now," he mumbled reassuringly.

We made our painful way along the rest of the tunnel, Jim never letting go of my hand. "Tell me your name," he said at some point.

"John Watson," I answered tonelessly.

He shook his head. "Nope, full name."

I rolled my eyes – which hurt, but I said nothing – "John _Hamish_ Watson."

He snorted. "Atta boy. Height?

\- Seriously?

\- Just making sure your concussion isn't too bad, love.

\- I don't have a concussion.

\- Then this should be easy for you. Height?

\- Five foot six. And a half.

\- Weight?

\- Go fuck yourself."

His laugh resonnated through the corridor. "Okay, okay, you're still you."

We reached the end of the tunnel and ended up in front of another wooden door, which Jim opened very much like the first one. I followed him into a small, white-walled room and blinked when daylight hit my eyes. Jim turned around and gasped when he saw me. Apparently I was in a state, and he hadn't been able to see just how bad it was.

He wasn't exactly in pristine condition himself, his torn sleeves revealing deep gashes, at least one of them in need of stitches, the knees of his trousers gaping around angry scratches, and his lower lip split and bleeding. He must have bitten down on it when he fell.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing hesitantly this way and that before making up his mind. He opened a small wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room and started rummaging through various items of clothing, some of which he tossed to me. "What are these?" I asked dumbly.

"Clothes they collect for the poor and needy," his voice answered from the wardrobe, "You'll be the poor, I'll be the needy." He'd said that so absentmindedly that I started wondering if his defense mechanism had gotten so strong that he just made jokes like these without realising it.

He emerged with a few more prizes and started changing rapidly, staring at me expectantly until I did the same. I wasn't really surprised to find out the clothes fit me, trusting Jim to be able to tell at a glance. I ended up wearing a navy blue hoodie and jeans, and him a zip up green hoodie and cargo trousers.

I almost made a comment, but they the world started swaying around me and my stomach clenched. Jim rushed toward me, grabbing the dustbin and shoving it under my nose, his right hand tilting my head downward as my long-forgotten breakfast came up and into the bin. "Not concussed, my arse," he mumbled gently, his fingers massaging the back of my head. I focussed on breathing, and when I was done I smiled sheepishly up at him.

Jim found a packet of tissues and gave me one so I could wipe my mouth. He put the bin back where he'd taken it and looked around at the mess we'd made. "Well, they're in for a surprise," he said, handing me my medical bag, which I'd almost forgotten I still had with me. I gave him a disapproving look and he shrugged. "What? We're queers, they already hate us anyway."

We exited the church, our hoods drawn up in a futile attempt to hide our faces. "Where to now?" I asked.

"Now, we go home," he answered laconically, "We need a little R&R, wouldn't you say?"

I scoffed. "What? You mean you didn't enjoy that? I was about to suggest we have another go."

He turned to grin at me, but noticed something above my shoulders. Grasping my hand again, he urged, "Whatever you do, don't look back."

As crazy as it sounds, I trusted this maniac with my life, so of course I did as he said and ran behind him, holding on to his hand for dear life, pushing through the nausea and dizziness that threatened to overtake me. Well, we'd had a good ten minute's quiet.

I heard voices barking orders behind us, and all I could think was _This is it, we're going to die here in the middle of the street_. But Jim kept running, and I kept following. A shot rang out, the bullet grazing at my right cheek. Apparently Jim had seen it out of the corner of his eyes because he turned wide eyes toward me, wincing as he saw the wound on my cheekbone. Still we pressed on.

Jim lead me down Shaftesbury Avenue, then turned left into Rupert Street. "Where are we going?" I shouted breathlessly.

"Just run, let me worry about the rest!" he yelled back.

We took a right turn into Conventry Street, then basically threw ourselves down the Tube station stairs. The process of getting a ticket had never felt slower. We ran into the first train that came and sat down, trying not to pant like maniacs. At least running up to catch the Tube isn't exactly an unusual thing, so people weren't particularly startled by us.

We did our best to camouflage our dirty and bleeding faces and I did my best not to throw up during the ride. We got out at the second stop, I emptied my stomach in a garbage bin, Jim putting on his best cockney accent and stammering apologies for "his lush of a boyfriend" – the _nerve_ – before leading me into another train. We changed directions a couple more times to be sure we'd lost Mycroft's men then finally, finally, we made our way home.

We spent a good hour cleaning and patching each other up. Jim had a lot of cuts and bruises which promised fun times to be had in the morning, but mostly he was fine. He spent some time stitching up my right cheek, my left forearm and a long gash running down my back. He then felt around my body to try to see if I had any broken bone and concluded that I didn't, though I did have a couple of cracked ribs.

He kept asking me questions to check up on my concussion – only a mild one, thank God – and when we were both satisfied neither of us was going to die in the other's arms, we crawled into bed. He gingerly lay his right arm across my chest and buried his face in the crook of my neck. "You will be the death of me," he mumbled faintly, already drifting. I kissed the top of his head, letting my eyes droop shut. We were both fast asleep within seconds. He did wake me up two hours later to ask me who was the current Prime Minister, but I threatened to shoot him and he left it at that.

When I woke up it was dark outside. Jim, of course, was already up and about, making tea in the kitchen. I padded up to join him, aching all over, and he wordlessly held out a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water, both of which I accepted gratefully. "How are you feeling?" he asked tentatively.

"Not too bad, considering. You?

\- I'm okay."

He poured us each a cuppa, and my stomach suddenly realized that I hadn't eaten for hours and voiced its protestation. Jim smirked and put a plate of sandwiches in front of me. We sat across from each other in comfortable silence, drinking and eating slowly. Jim hissed and cursed under his breath when he put his hot mug against his aching lip, which made me laugh, which in turn made me wince as my ribs responded angrily. We looked at each other and started giggling, albeit carefully. What a bunch of no-hopers.

When we were done I looked up at the clock, yawning. "I've got to get to the hospital. If I'm don't get back home at all tonight, Sherlock's going to tear London apart."

Jim nodded, retrieving my medical bag while I put my jacket on. I took it, thinking I should check my phone for texts when I gave a start. "I left my phones, my keys and my wallet in my clothes at the church!" I shouted frantically, "If they find them, they'll know I was with you! Oh hell, even just my clothes were clue enough! Jim, what are we-"

Jim interrupted me by raising his hand calmly. "Open your bag, John."

I obeyed. My clothes had been bunched up and shoved in there along with my equipment. I heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much," I said, wrapping my arms around him.

I felt him smile against my shoulder. "Anything for you, John."

I turned my head and kissed him on the cheek – to spare his lip – muttering a quick "I love you" before picking up my things and heading for the door, his "Just you" following me down the stairs. It might have been the concussion talking, but his voice suddenly sounded incredibly sad to me.

I took the Tube back to Saint Paul's, got to the hospital, faced an overexcited Jenkins and got my story straight with him – for the case! – and took a cab back to Baker Street.

The second I walked in Sherlock's eyes widened at my appearance. I fed him the story I'd been concocting : the patient died, and when I went outside to tell the husband – who had been standing outside to clear his head – he reacted rashly, giving me a pounding for my trouble.

It wasn't even a lie, really, that had happened... Years before, while Sherlock was still playing dead. The fact that he was outside accounted for the scratches on my arms, and I added the fact that he'd nicked a scalpel with which he slashed my face. I didn't go into too much details as, quoth Sherlock Holmes, "only lies have details" and his curiosity seemed satisfied.

"You had him arrested, I hope?" he asked.

I shook my head. "The man had just lost his wife, he wasn't thinking clearly.

\- You're not a human punching-bag, John.

\- I'm just saying," I said defensively, "It didn't feel right.

\- Oh, but it feels right to get beaten-up for something you're not responsible of?"

Tired of the turn this conversation had taken, I did the only thing I could think of. I played dirty. I let my gaze drop and my voice tremble. "I know what it feels like, that's all."

That did the trick. Sherlock's mouth opened, closed, opened again, closed again, he nodded and finally averted his eyes. I put my phone on the desk, yawning again, grabbed my things and announced that I was going to bed. My head had barely touched the pillow when I fell asleep.

After a day like that, who could blame me? I was sore, anxious, tired and still concussed. I dare anyone to function properly in these conditions. Still, a mistake is a mistake, and even though I didn't know it yet, I had just made a very big one.

I had put the wrong phone on the desk.

* * *

 **Well that can't be good, can it?**

 **Thank you for reading, hope you don't hate me too much right now!**

 **nerwende**


	16. Bad thing coming

_Lord knows there's a bad thing coming  
I feel it in my bones  
And on the horizon there's a storm that's growing  
Keeps me on my toes  
_

Angel Snow, _Secret_

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, I could have cried at the soreness that had taken over my body. I had to physically drag myself out of bed, but once I had I felt a little bit better. I paced around the room for a moment, testing my aching joints and muscles. It hurt but it certainly didn't feel as bad as I'd expected.

Smiling to myself, I slowly padded down the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, his bedroom door wide open. He was already out then. I shrugged and fixed myself a quick breakfast, then made my slow way into the bathroom for a shower. I dry-swallowed a couple of painkillers then studied myself in the mirror. I didn't look as horrid as I had the night before, so I guess that was a plus. I inspected the stitches on my cheek. Jim had done a good job, I knew I wouldn't have a scar when the thread came out. I made up my mind to go to his house and check up on him after work. I could always tell Sherlock I'd gone out for a pint with a friend he didn't like.

When I left the bathroom Sherlock was sitting in his chair – hadn't heard him come back – his eyes closed, his fingertips steepled together under his chin. "Morning," I called to him. Nothing. I came in the living room, noticing he had set The Chair. "Expecting a client?" Still nothing. In his Mind Palace, then.

I nodded to myself and went to sit on the couch, but his voice stopped me. "Could you pass me your phone?"

I turned and blinked owlishly at him, already feeling myself get annoyed. "What about yours?"

He cracked his eyes open and looked at me sideways. "Battery died," he mumbled in lieu of an explanation. Something about his tone didn't sit well with me. I couldn't tell what, but something was definitely off.

I shrugged and walked over to the desk, reaching out to pick up my phone when I froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn slowly to face me. Too late to play innocent. He had seen me hesitate. He had noticed that this wasn't my usual phone, and now he knew I knew. I swallowed and let my hand fall back to my side.

"Mycroft called me last night," he said, slowly enunciating every word to make sure I followed, "Apparently Moriarty had expected his visit. His men suddenly evacuated the building. Most of them were caught or shot, but some manage to escape. Then when the secret services went inside the hideaway, there was no sign of Moriarty. One of the rooms had the particularity to present an empty bookcase, all of its content – and shelves – thrown to the floor. This seemed peculiar to them. They inspected it and found a secret passage. It was too narrow for them to go into, but they threw an explosive down the stairs to at least inflict some damage."

He paused there, and I tried to remember how I usually breathed. Everything about the way I _existed_ seemed wrong at that moment. It was strange to stand there and listen to him tell me this story, as if I didn't know what happened. I kept staring at the desk, and he kept staring at me. After a while, he sighed and continued.

"They searched the place some more but it soon became apparent that Moriarty had left by the passage. Mycroft ordered them to search the neighbourghood. He obviously couldn't have gone very far. About ten minutes later one of them spotted two hooded figures at the corner of Dean Street and Shaftesbury Avenue. One of them turned to look at the other, and they recognized Moriarty. Unfortunately Moriarty recognized them as well. He and his accomplice ran off. The agents shot at them, but missed – though I wager the bullet grazed one of them. The crowd and traffic assisted in putting some distance between prey and hunters. They lost their tracks in Conventry Street. It seems the suspects managed to catch the Tube. They did a good job of keeping their heads down, literally, so none of the camera could catch the accomplice's face. They found themselves a crowd to hide in and then all traces of them were lost."

I still wasn't moving. Some part of my brain latched onto the funny side, mainly imagining Mycroft eating his blasted umbrella in frustration, but the gravity of the situation didn't escape me. The second most dangerous man in London suspected – no, knew – that I'd been with the most dangerous man in London. I glanced at the calendar on the desk. Eighteen months. That wasn't too bad, all things considered. Now it was all over, all because I'd made one stupid mistake.

"That's a good story you told me, last night," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously low, "I really bought it at first. Then I saw the phone. Not the one you usually use but not a new one, obviously you've been using it for over a year now. You had only contacts from Saint Bart's in it so it could be your professional phone, but then why would that stupid doctor call on your regular one yesterday? And that one contact, E. Rigby," he gave a humorless laugh, "If you really wanted me to fall for it, John, you should have chosen a band I hadn't been regularly subjected to ever since we met." I refrained from pointing out that Jim had picked the name, not me. Somehow I didn't think he'd appreciate it.

"You called the hospital, namely that idiot Doctor Jenkins, yesterday right after Mycroft had bragged about his discovery. Then Jenkins called about a 'medical emergency' which required your immediate presence. You're not a surgeon, what was the hurry? And then you took off, disappeared for twelve hours and came back half dead with a convenient story about a patient that attacked you."

My left hand started shaking and I felt a pain in my right thigh I hadn't felt in ages. I have never wanted to disappear as much as I did at that moment. And still Sherlock's voice pressed on. "Anytime you want to explain, John."

I cleared my throat, slowly turning toward him, but keeping my gaze down. "I'm not sure where to begin," I said quietly.

He scoffed, "How about telling me when you decided to betray me and associate with _him_?" That last word was said with such disgust that I cringed. When I remained quiet, he stood up brusquely, "Well, when was it? Yesterday? Last week? Last month? When?" He didn't go back in time any further, and my inner Jim whispered that it was because he didn't want to think I'd been lying to him for so long. He lost patience, shouting, " _When_ , John?!"

"You're not asking the right question," I heard myself say surprisingly calmly.

"What?" he asked, his voice seething.

"I never 'associated' with him, not in the way you're thinking."

There was silence for a second, during which I could practically hear the cogs moving in Sherlock's brain. Then there was a sharp intake of breath and his voice became gentler. "Is he threatening you? Is that what's happening? Is he forcing you to work for him?"

I screwed my eyes shut, fighting back the tears that the hope in his voice had summoned. He was willing to latch onto any explanation, however improbable, that would justify my presence with Jim while keeping the idea he had of me intact. I could have said yes, I could have made up a story in which I was the innocent victim, but then Sherlock would have thrown himself after Jim and not stopped until he was dead, for real this time. I couldn't let that happen. And truth be told, I was tired of lying to everyone. "No, Sherlock, he isn't. I-I went to him willingly yesterday."

Sherlock took a step back from me. I dared to look up at him. He was staring at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. No, worse : he had that same look in his eyes than that night at the pool, in the brief moment he'd thought I was behind the deadly game. He saw me looking and schooled his features into a cold, hard stare. "So you did warn him about Mycroft's attack." I nodded. "And you still consider yourself unassociated with him?"

I fidgeted. "I was never involved in his plans, it was never like that. We don't exactly have a... professional relationship.

\- Then what kind of relationship did you have, exactly?"

I blushed and looked down again. That was all the answer he needed. "Oh _God_ ," he spat, disgust lacing his voice. I tried to ignore the way it stung. "And how long has this been going on?" I mumbled my answer, and he huffed again. "Speak up, John! How long have you two been seeing each other?"

I cleared my throat. "Ten years. On and off." I don't know why I felt the need to add that last detail. It certainly didn't make things better.

He stayed quiet so I looked up. His gaze was blank, his emotions carefully in check. He nodded sharply and went to sit in his armchair, assuming his usual position. "Sit down and explain," he said between clenched teeth. I moved to sit in my own chair but he growled a sharp "No." I startled and looked at him. He waited, unmoving, and I understood. Nodding slowly, I turned around and went to sit on The Chair. The Client's Chair. Because that's where people sat and talked, while Sherlock sat and listened, then decided if he wanted them or not. "You know the drill," he said when I was settled, "Start from the beginning and don't forget any detail."

So I talked. And I talked. And I talked.

I told him everything from the beginning. How I met Jim Moriarty when I was in med school, how we dated for a couple of years, how he killed my parents, how I found out, how I left for the Army to escape the situation, how he tried to get me back, how he became obsessed with Sherlock out of jealousy, how I tried to stop him, how I kept giving in to him, how I rejected him after the Fall, how he came back to me after Mary, how I had been hiding my relationship with him ever since.

Sherlock just sat there, his face unreadable, while I lost myself in the statement of facts and the retelling of memories. I finished with a detailed account of what happened the day before. When I was finished we sat there, him thinking and I waiting. It felt like hours but it can really only have been a handful of minutes.

Finally he spoke. "When we met you'd known him for four years.

\- Yes.

\- You recognized him from the moment he and Molly walked into the lab.

\- Yes.

\- You went willingly to the pool and you played along with his scheme.

\- Yes.

\- The bomb and snipers were fake, and you knew it all along.

\- Yes."

I was unsettled by this interrogation. It wasn't like Sherlock to state the obvious, let alone repeat everything someone had just told him. I knew it couldn't be a good sign.

"Did you know he was behind the Irene Adler case?

\- No, he only told me later.

What about the Reichenbach case, did you know of his plan?"

I looked up at him, hurt. "Of course not, I never would have let him do what he did."

His mouth was only a thin line at this point. "But you still pretended you didn't know him throughout the case. You played his game in that journalist's house."

I dropped my gaze again. "I pretended he didn't mean anything to me, but I refused to play his game by supposedly refusing to believe what he was saying."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "You still lied." I could only nod and he went on. "You knew he was alive all along and still you said nothing, not even when he made his little announcement." Another nod. "And then you kept on lying to have your little escapades with him." A thought seemed to occur, and when I risked a glance he was glaring at me. "Were you lying to Mary too?"

My heart throbbed. "I never lied to her," I said sincerely, "I just chose not to reveal some things from my past."

He barked out a laugh, "And you had the nerve to make a scene when you found out who she was." I didn't know how to respond to that. "Did you even love her? Or was she just your cover?"

The question was so unexpected and so hurtful that I got angry. "How dare you ask me that?" I growled, "Of course I bloody loved her! Losing her and our baby nearly killed me, you know it." Then my voice broke and I had to look away. I don't think I'll ever be able to talk about the family I lost without breaking down. "I hated Jim for what he did on the Reichenbach case," I went on hoarsely, "I didn't want to even think about him anymore. I had moved on. But after Mary died," I stopped for a shaky breath, "He came back for me, and I realized things between us weren't as over as I thought they were."

Sherlock stared, then abruptly started laughing. It was a terrifying sound. He rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head slightly. "John, John, John, John..." he mumbled, suddenly dropping his hands on his lap, "Look at you. You honestly think he _loves_ you, don't you?"

He barked a humorless laugh, standing up to pace the room. "James Moriarty is a psychopath, John. He doesn't love, he doesn't want, he doesn't care. He destroys. He only does things that will serve his purpose, or save him from boredom. You think he chose you out of sentiment?" his tone had turned vicious, "He chose you because when he looked at you, he saw a martyr looking for a cause to sacrifice himself for, and he decided to have fun exerting power over you. He wanted to watch you _dance_ for him."

He scoffed, the corner of his mouth curling into a cruel smile, "And you, you were so pathetically desperate for any kind of attention that you obeyed and played his game. That's all you've ever been to him, John. A toy. And someday he's going to get tired of you and throw you away."

I knew Sherlock was hurt and therefore trying to hurt me back, but the words stung nonetheless. Not because I believed them, I didn't, but because of the venom in my best friend's voice. It's a horrible thing to hear so much hatred in your best friend's voice, to see so much betrayal in his eyes. Especially when you know it's warranted. I can't blame him for thinking what he thought, but he was wrong and I knew it.

But how could I tell him? How could he possibly understand that Jim Moriarty always slept on his side, his arms outstretched and his hands opening and closing as if he were reaching for something? Or that he laughed with his whole body? Or that he rubbed his eyes with his thumbs tucked into his fists, like babies do? How could I possibly explain to him that Jim once went all around London in the freezing cold just to find the book I wanted for Christmas? Or that he hated people as a whole, but was surprisingly nice and sweet towards animals? Or that he pretended to hate the Beatles but had once coaxed me out of a PTSD-induced panic attack bysinging _Let It Be_ in my ear?

How could I, his best friend, ever tell him that the man he hated with a passion was the same man who spent years trying to figure out the perfect dosage for my evening tea, recorded _Doctor Who_ episodes for me because he knew I'd fall asleep against him halfway through, and came to hug me from behind whenever I got up first and made breakfast?

Those are the things that made Jim who he was. Everything else was just what he did. And even though it made all the difference for me, I knew it wasn't something Sherlock could ever understand.

Sherlock stopped hurling abuse at me, probably noticing that I wasn't listening. I looked up and his vicious glare made my heart sink. "Get out," he finally said, "Take what you need and get out. I don't want to see you again."

It seemed only fair, and with a heavy heart I got up and made my way upstairs. In a haze I packed a suitcase and a duffle bag, making sure to take everything now because I didn't think I could ever come back for the rest. I took a deep breath and went back downstairs to get my coat. I felt the weight of my second phone in the pocket as I put it on. I stopped, looking at the man I'd betrayed. He was staring out the window, his back toward me, his hands clasped behind him.

I cleared my throat to get his attention, but he didn't move. But I knew he was listening to me. "When you decide to report me," I said in a trembling voice I couldn't bring myself to be ashamed of, "Just send me a text and I'll come. Here or to Scotland Yard, if you prefer. I won't try to run." He said nothing, but his hands clenched into thight fists. I nodded to myself and backed away slowly. "I'm sorry Sherlock," I muttered before leaving.

The way to Jim's house felt slow and excrutiating. I was exhausted, physically and mentally, and despited everything, I ached for Jim's arms. But even as I stepped inside, I knew it wouldn't happen. I dropped my bags, looking around the rooms. The shelves were naked, the kitchen table empty. I went from room to room half-heartedly, knowing I would find them just as bare. Our bed was made, the wardrobe wide open, its emptiness staring back at me. An envelope was sitting on my pillow. I took it in shaky hands, already knowing what it contained but wanting to be proven wrong. I carefully unfolded the letter, and Jim's fancy cursive was another slap in the face. It was too beautiful for such a terrible moment.

 _Dear John,_

 _By now you've probably noticed that the house is empty. Feel free to either sell it or move in; I've arranged for all the paperwork to be in your name. Either way, as you've no doubt come to the conclusion, I am not coming back. I'm sorry for walking out on you like this, but it's for the best. I should have had the courage to do that a long time ago but I let things go too far, and you got hurt in the process. Believe me when I say that it's the last thing I wanted._

 _I told you once that I couldn't keep you safe. While I wasn't lying, it still was an incomplete truth. There is a way to keep you safe. This is me keeping you safe. So please, don't try to find me. I know you've always been one to follow your heart, but just this once, do what your brain says. Let me leave knowing that I've managed to protect you. Let me do this one last thing for you._

 _I didn't want to go without saying thank you. I've never been able to say it – and other things – out loud, so I hope this will do. Thank you for putting up with me when I didn't deserve it, thank you for accepting me when no one else would and above all, thank you for showing me what it feels like to have something to lose._

 _Although leaving you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, our time together makes it worthwhile. I need you to know that it was all true. I have never lied to you, not once. You are the one person in the world I could never lie to. The one person in the world who saw the real me._

 _This is what I meant, by the way, every time you've told me you loved me and I replied with "Just you". I guess the extended version of that sentence is, "I don't care about anything or anyone in the world, just you". This is the highest term of endearment I am capable of. Not exactly traditional, I'll give you that, but then there isn't much about us that could be called traditional, is there?_

 _I'm sorry things turned out the way they did. I'm sorry I wasn't the person you deserve. I sincerely hope you meet them, someday. I hope you are every bit as happy as you should be. And in the meantime, know this : you are the best man I've ever known, and I consider it a privilege to have been able to be a part of your life._

 _For whatever it's worth, I remain,_

 _Yours forever,_

 _James Moriarty_

 _P.S. : I know you probably won't do it, but I do have to ask you to burn this letter. All the good of my leaving would be undone if it was found in your possession. Brain before heart, John!_

 _J.M._

 **END OF PART I**

* * *

 **Please don't hate me!**

 **Now that John has told his side of the story, how about we get somebody else to tell theirs?**

 **nerwende**


	17. I was just guessing

_I was just guessing_

 _At numbers and figures_

 _Pulling the puzzles apart_

Coldplay _– The Scientist_

* * *

 **PART II : JIM**

Hullo. Are you ready for the story?

This is the story of the dysfunctional boy who thought he could have everything.

This boy grew up in a very rich, very conservative Irish family. His father was a judge and his mother was a research scientist, so I think it's safe to say the boy's family was loaded. Since money was the thing they had the most of, that's about the only thing they gave the boy. They weren't bad people, they just weren't very good at the whole parenting thing. So they paid a nanny to dress, feed and love him in their place. Had they paid close attention to the boy, they might have been able to notice a few things about him that were wrong, but they didn't so they didn't.

The boy was a very bright one, and he learned to talk, read and count faster than any other boy in all the land. But, like many bright children, the boy was also troubled. He spent most of his time alone as most of the other kids his age seemed to fear him. He also had strange habits for a child, such as compulsively counting everything or keeping every last one of his possessions in a neat and precise order, habits he never could get rid of, even as an adult. These particularities irritated his nanny, so she wouldn't care for him any more than her duty strictly dictated her to.

It might come as no surprise for you to hear that the boy had no friends at school. Smaller and nerdier than everyone else, he was often the laughing stock of the class, but he never let people see how lonely he felt. With time, he learned to reason and understand the phenomenon. He knew he was different, he knew difference made people uneasy, and he knew people did stupid thing when they were uneasy. It was a simple enough equation, and boy did he love equations.

What he didn't love, though, is the fact that his parents, his nanny and even some of his teachers always called him Jamie. He didn't like the nickname, which felt much too tame to him. Some girls were called Jamie as well, after all. He didn't want to share a nickname with girls. Girls were icky. But he was never really passionate enough about it to say anything, so he never said a word about it. There really wasn't much he was passionate about at all, mind. He didn't talk much, really, and grew up in perfect and utter indifference.

But the thing little Jamie hadn't anticipated, was the effect those accumulated annoyances would have on him. Jamie took it all – the tauting, the isolation, his parents' absence, the nicknames, the forced encounters with supposedly potential friends – in stride until one day, another little boy named Carl Powers appeared in his life.

Carl Powers was one of those popular kids who liked to step on others just for kicks – yes, pun intended. He decided he didn't like the scrawny kid with the books and the funny looks so he took to bullying him on a regular basis. Among other things, he would always say that Jamie wasn't "wired right". Jamie never struck back, knowing better than to give his tormentor attention, so Carl Powers did what most bullies do : he kept pushing.

He started by knocking a book off Jamie's hand, then calling Jamie names and making up humiliating rumors about him, picking up Jamie's tray in the canteen and dumping its content on the boy's head, locking Jamie up in the men's bathroom after turning out the lights.

Then one day, after P.E., Carl and a few of his friends stayed behind to wait for Jamie. As soon as they could, the friends grabbed Jamie and held him down while Carl started kicking him, sat on him, hit him with his shoes and so on. The goal was to humiliate more than hurt, and at last the bully had reached it : Jamie was enraged. So Jamie got a bit naughty and a few days later, Carl, the golden boy of the Powers family, was found head down in the swimming pool after his practice. A tragic accident, really.

And so it was that, at the age of eleven, Jamie got away with his very first murder, thus finding out that the Rolling Stones were lying : you can, in fact, get what you want.

Rumors quickly started at school that the weirdo had killed the jock, and soon the other children started avoiding his gaze and shrinking away from him. Jamie liked this new power, and never did anything to deny the rumors. He figured, if they were going to treat him like a freak, they might as well fear him. And just like that, Jamie got his first taste of power. And he _loved_ it.

He knew no one would believe the children, especially since the teachers knew everyone there hated the poor boy. The rest, as they say, is history, and Jamie grew to become a teenager then a young adult while learning how to profit from people's natural fear of him.

I think that's the point where I should point out, for those of you who can't join the dots, that little Jamie was me.

So you see, my story isn't one of those sobby tales of "My parents were mean to me" or "I didn't have any friends growing up". The former isn't true, the latter was resolved. It's true that at a young age I have probably wanted friends, but when I find myself incapable of gaining one I just shrugged and concluded that they were all idiots. So you see, it's not the kind of story you might expect. This story, boys and girls, is about _wanting_.

You know how adults always end up asking children what they _want_ to be when they grow up – as if a child's mind was capable of registering and weighing the possibilities ? My answer was always "I don't know", but not because I was confused. The whole sentence might as well have been _I don't know what it's like to want anything_. I'm still not sure I'm grasping the concept of wanting, even now. I've consulted dictionaries, actually.

 _ **Want** : v. To feel a need or a desire for wish for._

But Jim, what does "desire" mean ?

 _ **Desire** : n. A longing or a craving, as for something that brings satisfaction or enjoyment._

And there you have it. A definition in thirteen words, four of which were completely foreign to me. I didn't long, I didn't crave, I didn't enjoy, and I certainly was never satisfied. I did things because I felt like it. I didn't have passions or hobbies. There was only Boredom, and the things that might break it for a while.

Now taking care of Carl Power, _that_ wasn't boring. I found it quite fascinating, actually, watching him struggle in the water until the strength faded out of him followed, of course, by life itself. Notice I said " fascinating", not "exciting", "pleasing" or any other emotion-linked adjective. I wasn't doing this out of dark passion. Bear in mind that I am a mathematician. I believe in numbers above all else, and emotions have no business with numbers. In the equation that was my life, Carl Powers was a troublesome variable. He had to go.

Years later, when my neighbours kept harassing my mother, telling her she was doing a terrible job of raising a child and threatening to call child services – to be fair, I did slash their tyres – I arranged for their television to implode. It's not that difficult, believe me. I would give you the recipe but frankly, if you can't figure it out by yourself, I'm not going to ruin my own job opportunities.

When I was sixteen my math teacher, an old bat who "believed in me with all [her] heart" but saw no problem trying to get in my pants, enjoyed her very last homemade soufflé. I didn't anticipate that one of my classmates would catch me in the act. They found him in the PE changing room. Apparently he had slipped and cracked his skull on the bench. Clumsy, really.

Interesting as they were, none of these events did anything to alleviate the Boredom, though. As soon as it was over, it was like nothing happened. It was... How shall I describe it in a way that even you could understand ?

You know when you've been a really loud place for an extended period of time – like a club, for instance – and then you leave and it's quiet all around, and there's that ringing sound in your ears ? That's how it felt. The Boredom was the ringing in my ears that could only be cured in short bursts by intense experiences, like, say, murders. Passion or feelings had nothing to do with my activities, they were just means to an end. At the time I would have given anything to know what it was like to actually _want_ something.

And then John Watson came into my life, and I found out.

John Watson is, for better or for worse, the oddest, most frustrating variable in my equation. I haven't worked him out yet, and I'm beginning to think I never will. When he first talked to me that night, I dismissed him as just another "nice guy" who just wanted to make himself feel good by pretending to perform a so-called selfless act – even though, as we all know, there's no such thing. He obviously felt bad for his friends' attitude, because that's who John is. When my usual charm and social aptitude took the lead, I thought for sure that he would cower away like everyone did. But then there was that fire, that no-nonsense attitude that took me by surprise.

When he asked for my name, I opened my mouth to say "Jamie," but decided I'd had enough of that nickname. For some reason, I didn't want to be Jamie to him. Jamie was a lonely child who let everyone walk all lover him. I didn't want to be James either – there are way too many Jameses on this earth as it is – so I settled for the monosyllabic, strong-sounding nickname of Jim. And just like that, without my even acknowledging it, John Watson had already changed my life a little.

I found myself thinking about him long after our brief exchange, and I couldn't for the life of me understand why that was. I spent the next weeks pondering this new riddle, catching glimpses of him now and again when we'd end up in the same places. I didn't want to go talk to him, at first. My social skills were, let's say, rudimentary at best. I have to admit I was a tad shy and awkward, what with trying to hide the fact that I was a psychopath, and all that.

And then, one day, I saw him struggling to get a book from the top shelf in the library, his face red with more than just effort. I didn't even stop to think about it, I went over, grabbed the book and gave it to him. He looked surprised, then pleased to see me. This was rare enough to be noted. No one had ever seemed pleased to see me before.

After that episode, we started seeing each other more and more often, and he started to feel more and more like an enigma. Much as it shames me to say, I had no idea how to conduct myself around him. No one had ever stuck around long enough for me to know what normal people did when together.

It didn't seem to bother him, though. He once laughed and told me he thought my shyness was adorable. I snapped at him, because I thought he was mocking me. He just held up his hands in surrender and changed the subject. That's something I soon grew to appreciate about John. He didn't pry. If I went erratic, moody or aggressive, he'd just move on.

I think it's fair to mention that he wasn't as quick-tempered then as he is now. The army did a good job of shattering his nerves. A better man would probably say, "I don't blame him", but not me. I do blame him. I blame him so much that I still get mad at him sometimes. But more on that later.

I don't know what came over me that day when I kissed him for the first time. I had been staring at him for a while and when he looked up from his book and smiled, I remember thinking, _This. This is what it's like to want something._ It was so overwhelming that I latched on to his lips. When I realized he wasn't reciprocating I reeled back, certain that I'd ruined everything. I thought he would be mad at me, and the thought of losing what I'd spent my life looking for made me sick to my stomach. But then he said "Do it again", and because I didn't move fast enough, he took charge instead. Another thing I appreciate about John : he knows when to leave well enough alone, but he also knows when to take the wheel.

For reasons beyond my comprehenson, we started dating, and for a while things were as normal as they could be. Of course there was still this huge secret I was keeping from him, but then I'm such a good liar it wasn't so hard. I was just relieved not to be alone anymore. Because, I'll be honest, no matter how many times I'd told myself it didn't bother me to be alone, that I didn't need anyone, I never quite managed to believe it. And now that I did have someone, I realized how lonely I had truly been.

Are you feeling sorry for me yet ? Don't bother.

It certainly wasn't a time of peace. I would make an insensitive comment, laugh at someone's plight or voice my dark thoughts and John would give me the John Watson's Look Number 45, the _What the hell is wrong with you ?_ look. Or sometimes my racing mind would go into overload and I'd end up ranting, shouting, snarling, and John would have to coax me out of it like I was a fragile thing.

I hate when this happens. Not only because, well, _embarrassing_ , but also because I feared I might snap and hurt John. As much as I was capable of, I was not willing to actively hurt him. Another unexpected display of sentiment on my part. Sometimes he would try to talk about it afterwards, but I never allowed him to. If I'd wanted a shrink, I would have gone to see one. And then I would have ended up either in jail or an asylum. None of those option seemed very appealing to me, to be honest. I just wanted someone to be _there,_ without question or condition. And I did have that. Until I screwed up and killed his parents.

When I think about it, I can't help but marvel at the fact that he wasn't nearly as angry about that particular double homicide as he should have been. Their death didn't really pain him – and the fact that John Watson didn't mourn his parents speaks volume about what kind of people they were – but the fact that I was a killer did. And then, because he was John and he was all that mattered and I felt like I needed him to know, to understand, to approve, I told him about the others before.

He looked disgusted for a minute, and that, I'll admit, hurt. He shouted, I shouted, and he said he would report me. So I did the only thing I could think of, the thing I'm best at : I threatened him. I could see the moment his features turned to stone, right before he left the room without another word.

I was left alone to pace around, fume and vent at no one in particular. I kept yelling that he was ungrateful, that he should have thanked me for taking risks for him, that maybe I shouldn't bother with someone like him.

I know what you're thinking, but I disagree. Little Carl was right, I am not wired right. Or maybe I am, and you are all wrong ? Sentimentality is a flaw, a defect in the human brain. I do not regret killing the people I've killed, because each and every one of their deaths served a purpose. _My_ purpose.

But with John's parents, it's different. They deserved to die for what they'd done to him, and if I had to do it all over again, knowing what I know now, I would do it – albeit not nearly as quickly as I did. The only thing I would change is telling John. He didn't need to know. This was one of my mistakes – yes, I do make some. Regrettably, I am human. And that mistake cost me John Watson.

* * *

 **Well look who's giving us his version of the facts!**

 **Hope you like the change, how about we keep digging into the depths of Jim's impossible mind?**

 **nerwende**


	18. Don't think I need anything at all

_I don't need no arms around me  
I don't need no drugs to calm me  
I have seen the writing on the wall  
Don't think I need anything at all _

Pink Floyd, _Another Brick in the Wall, Part III_

* * *

When time went by and the police still didn't turn up at my doorstep, it became quite apparent that John wasn't going to report me after all. Granted, he was avoiding me in a not-so-subtle way, but I kept telling myself that he would eventually come around. He can only stay mad so long, I thought.

I realise now how presomptuous I was. I was underestimating John's aptitudes in self-destruction. Still, I had to admit to myself that I missed him cruelly. It was interesting, this discovery of emotions. I can't say I cared for it.

We graduated, and the idiots in his school threw a party that I was of course not invited to. I'm sure his friends were glad I wasn't hanging around him anymore. They probably were already starting to tell him things like "Between you and me, I think it's probably for the best" and "To be honest, I always thought he was a weirdo" and other mindless platitudes of the kind. Knowing my John, he probably was nodding and smiling politely but not adding to the debate. But none of that mattered. He had no excuse anymore, so I snuck into the party, ignoring the odd looks, and claimed what was rightfully mine.

I found him standing there, leaning against a wall, his third – no, fourth – beer in hand. I held him, looking over his shoulders at the people staring at us, silently daring them to say something. I muttered something in his ear, letting him know that to me it wasn't over and that he had no reason to hide from me anymore.

I don't know what made him grab me by the hair and kiss me ferociously, taking me completely by surprise. Was it something I said? Was it the alcohol he'd ingested? Or was it that he'd actually missed me? All possible answers, but since we can never figure out which is the right one and I don't waste time speculating on pointless questions, I will not draw this out. I don't care why he did what he did, or why he agreed to follow me home, or why he let me ravish him that night. I had him back, at that's all that mattered.

I expected him to get up in the morning, gather his clothes, mutter awkward nonsense about it being a mistake and leave, but he did none of it. Instead I was awoken by the smell of frying bacon and I padded into the kitchen to find him filling two plates of his own version of an English breakfast. I walked up to him, wrapped my arms around him and kissed the crook of his neck. He gave a soft, purring sound – one of my favorite sounds in the world – and handed me my plate. We had breakfast and our conversation was as light and easy as it had been before.

Only this time, there was some sort of edge to it. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first, but after a few days I couldn't deny it anymore. He was faking it. His smile was too bright, his tone was too light, and he would be so careful about the conversation topic that even a Scotland Yard official couldn't have missed it. He was pretending he was alright, just like he had, I assume, when teachers had asked him where his bruises came from.

I would sometimes test him, trying to get to the limits of his acting. I would breech a touchy subject, or get angry at him for no reason. Nothing. I would be more and more aggressive in the bedroom, but still he didn't say a word. So after about two weeks I decided to strike : "You should move in with me," I told him as we were lying in bed, panting from our evening activities, "You practically live here, anyway."

All I wanted was to ellicit a reaction. I would have proposed if it had been legal then. I expected him to get mad at me, to lash out, to tell me that he would rather die than live with a monster like me, anything. Anything to stop this charade of his. I was the one who was supposed to fake emotions, not him. He turned to look at me, and I could see in his eyes that he was torn – his eyes will always give him away. But in the end he smiled and said, "I'd like that." I was so disappointed I just nodded and turned my back to him.

Later on, when I heard his breathing even out, I got up, got dressed, got out. I found myself a homeless man – sixty-four, no family, suffering from a heart disease, not very long to live – and bashed in his head with a brick. John was shutting me out, reacting to me like he'd reacted to his father. And I couldn't stand it.

He moved in with me and the act played on. I would become more and more erratic, on purpose, and still he would pretend he was fine with it. And when I did go into one of my notorious fits, his voice and his presence weren't enough to calm me down anymore. Things were changing, and I hated it. John had become my constant. Without a constant, the equation falls apart. He wasn't patient or caring anymore. He was acting nice so the beast wouldn't lash out at him. He was afraid of me.

And then one day, I went on a rant about the news again – a stupid smuggler who had trusted his own brother with his secrets, seriously. I must have yelled something, because John was so startled his teacup fell to the floor. I felt my blood boil, all my anger suddenly directed at John. Noticing how much the situation was escaping my control made me angry beyond measure. For a moment I could see myself choking him to death, or bashing his skull against a wall, or stabbing him with the kitchen knife. I blamed him for everything that was wrong with us. I hated him for forcing me to care and then letting me down.

It only lasted a second, but it was suffocating. He must have seen it in my eyes, because he wordlessly took his coat and all but ran out of the house. I suspect he looked back constantly to make sure I wasn't following him. I stood up, cleaned the mess he'd made and started pacing. My hands were shaking, my pulse was racing, my head was reeling. Another fit. I had to take it out on something. I blew up the neighbour's car.

I waited for John all evening, but at midnight I went to bed, convinced that he'd never come home again. But at two o'clock the front door opened and closed. I lay on my side, facing the wall. Foosteps on the stairs. My eyes were wide open and unblinking. The bedroom door opened and closed. I held my breath. I heard the sound of him undressing. I waited. He slipped into bed behind me and went still. I turned to look at him. His back was toward me. I lay back down, silently biting my pillow and clawing at the sheets. What can I say? I'm a brat. Brats hate to be ignored.

For the next few months we barely saw each other. He was running from me and I was detaching from him. He'd go out in the morning and came home increasingly late at night, without bothering with an explanation. I would take out my frustrations on any helpless recipient I could find, without bothering with an alibi. We would have silently angry sex – which is like angry sex, but with a dash of hypocrisy – a nightly fight for dominance until both of us were exhausted. Wash, rince, repeat.

This dysfunctional routine went on until The Letter came. I would copy it here but I'm afraid I've burnt it, and refused to memorize it. Suffice it to say that the Army was letting John know that he'd passed the tests and was to report two weeks later. I closed the envelope but didn't re-seal it. I wanted him to know that I knew. Then I put it in plain view, for him to find.

If I'd been angry before, I was now seething. I had expected a lot of things from John, but to see him react to our situation in such a stupid, falsely heroic way was past anything I could have anticipated. And yet, despite my fury, some part of me was pleased. He couldn't avoid conflict anymore. This time he couldn't just pretend nothing was wrong.

When he came back home, he took my head-on approach surprisingly well, but he was still too calm, so I went for provocation, then threats. That got me a reaction I hadn't expected : he stood up to me and mocked my claim over him.

I saw red. Couldn't he understand that he was mine? Couldn't he see that he had no right to walk away from me? I don't think I'd ever been so angry before. He was leaving me, and he acted like I'd deserved it. I was furious at him, but also at myself for letting my guard down, for allowing this to happen. I promised myself never to show such weakness again. No more sentiment, no more tolerance, no more patience. He didn't deserve it, and if even he didn't deserve it, then no one did.

I snarled at him, telling him that he would never make it back from the war, not with both his mind and heart intact, and I let him know that I wouldn't be there waiting for him. I stomped out of the house, needing to clear my head. I set fire to a homeless shelter.

I returned to the house well into the night and made quick work of getting my things out of there. I left without turning back. I know John stayed there until he had to report and when he did, I move back in. It was _my_ house, after all. With John gone The Boredom came back full force, and I had no one left to act as my conscience.

So I decided to find work. Bless you, not as mathematician. Of course I excelled in that field, but it lacked the excitement I so needed. I decided I would live off of my other talent. I started small, as most people do, by helping a common thief win his trial. Later I helped an abductor disappear. Then, I saved a serial killer from execution.

Word started to spread among criminals of London that I was the man who made the magic happen, and soon I ended up having to refuse clients. Having money helped with all of it, of course. It seems in the end my parents were good for something. It's the only thing they knew how to give to me, but there was an abundance of it. More than I knew what to do with. And since I was now in a flourishing business, I knew there would never be an end to it.

As an extra "Fuck you, John" I bought myself the services and loyalty of ex-soldiers and mercenaries, men that had been kicked out for treason or irregular behaviour. Some of them I had to get out of jail. Of course I always have to keep them on a tight leash, lest they start biting me. I said they were loyal to me, but I have no doubt they would as soon put a bullet between my eyes as obey my commands. The trick is to find the right carrot to make these jackasses go. Yes pun intended.

My equation was expanding, and I had an eye on each and every data available. This kept me busy for a while, until one day I was making tea and later realised I'd made two cups, and that one of the mugs was John's favorite. I knocked it off the counter just on principle. It was incomprehensible, this hateful sentiment that would insist on creeping in where it was not wanted.

But a few weeks later a newsflash regarding a bombing in Kandahar came on, and I found myself holding my breath, wondering and – how dreadful – worrying. Soon I found myself thinking about him more and more until he became an obsession. I bribed some pencil pushers in the Army and managed to get frequent update on one Doctor John Watson, Fifth of the ruddy Northumberland Fusiliers. Then I got angry for showing weakness again and had my men execute a corrupt banker. Consider that my service to society.

Three years went by that way, with me at the head of an effective but quiet criminal network, but always keeping an eye on John. I was in the middle of a very important phone call – a.k.a blackmailing the head of a powerful agency based in Russia, that's as precise an information as you'll get – when I glanced at my computer and saw an e-mail from my Army buddies.

 _Doctor Watson wounded_.

The average mortal will tell you that multitasking is impossible, to which I say, You people are so sweet.

I kept up my conversation with the babbling mess on the other end of the line while furiously typing a reply, demanding to know what had happened. Within minutes I got an answer. _Bullet to the shoulder, dangerously close to the heart. Chances of survival slim._

I gave a snarl, and the voice in my ear cowered. I took it out on the man, of course, giving him an even shorter deadline than I'd planned. I'm pretty sure he fainted after hanging up. In the meantime I ordered the damn office worker to keep me informed of any change in John's condition, letting him know in vivid details what would happen if he omitted any detail. I don't think he needed to be told twice.

A few hours later, as I was yelling at a subordinate for no particular reason, I got an e-mail saying John's heart had stopped for three minutes and forty-five seconds – I hurled the glass I was holding against a wall – but they had managed to revive and stabilize him. He was going to be sent home.

Now remember what I'd said about no more weakness, no more sentiment and so on? Forget it. At this point I'd just learned that he'd died and come back to life, and that he was on his way back. I couldn't stay here and wait for news any longer. I needed to see for myself that he would make it.

Before I left, though, I pulled a few strings and secured the smuggling of his gun. Ironic peace offering, I know, but I was rather convinced that he'd appreciated it more than a bunch of flowers. Besides, the thing ended up saving his life a few times so, money well spent.

I got to the hospital, playing the part of the distraught boyfriend – well, it wasn't so far-fetched – and they informed me of his critical state. I decided they were idiots who didn't know John like I did. I sat vigil at his bedside for three days and sure enough, after five false alarms, he actually woke up. When he saw me there I could see him struggle not to let his emotions show. The eyes, John, the eyes. He snapped at me and I returned the favor, unwilling to show him how actually happy I was to know he was going to live.

But I wanted to know if _he_ was happy to see _me_ , so when I saw an opportunity to make sure, I took it. I played innocent, pretending to take for granted that he would come home. Probably not the most subtle of tactics, but what would you have done? As it was, the act fooled no one. John had changed, his features hardened along with his character. I could tell he wouldn't just smile and fake satisfaction anymore. And I could tell he wasn't coming back.

So what could I do? I got up, spouted out the first hurtful thing I could think of and walked away, cursing myself for even bothering. That night, the good people of Saint Petersburg were abruptly awoken by a mysterious explosion.

* * *

 **You know what's next : the consulting criminal vs. the consulting detective. What was on James Moriarty's mind at the time, I wonder?**

 **Thank you for reading, see you very soon!**

 **nerwende**


	19. Explosions

_'Cause it's simple darling, I gave you warning_

 _Now everything you own is falling from the sky in pieces_

 _So watch them fall with you, in slow motion_

 _I pray that you'll find peace of mind_

 _And I'll find you another time_

 _I'll love you another time_

Ellie Goulding, _Explosions_

* * *

And now, boys and girls, a little bit about my feud with Sherlock Holmes.

Once upon a time, when I had just gotten away with my very first murder, I heard about a boy who had made a fuss about little Carl Power's shoes. The very ones that now sat triumphantly in my wardrobe. He had me worried, that kid. For a second there I thought he would be my downfall, but thankfully his lack of credibility – after all, he _was_ a kid – played in my favor.

Good thing too, I would have hated to have to throw the shoes away. The little bastard had once found it funny to pin me to the ground and hit me in the face repeatedly with his shoes while the other kids looked on, mocking me. It was only fitting that I kept the trainers as a trophy. Kept them in real good shape, exactly the same state as when I found them.

John had found them once and raised an amused eyebrow at me. I never wore trainers, so of course he was surprised I had them. I made up a story about someone giving them to me as a gift and he bought it. Why wouldn't he? At the time, he had no reason not to trust me.

I'm fairly sure dear old Sherlock has gotten his nose in a number of other crimes I either orchestrated or enabled, but to be honest I didn't pay him any attention. He wasn't the only nosy bastard to try to interfere with my work, and I had no doubt I would be able to shake him off in due time. But when he started to gain in popularity, I decided to have my fun with him.

I started by posting hidden messages on his blog, little clues to let him know I was there and coming for him. Out of all the busybodies out to get me, he seemed to be the only one that could be interesting. He was an intellectual rival, and I simply thought it would be fun to watch him dance. I even made my posts flirty, just to annoy him, all to keep him entertained while I was setting the whole Jefferson Hope plan in action.

That is, of course, until I found out that he had taken lodgings with none other than John Watson.

It wasn't exactly a prowess actually, because I'd found out, in a moment of pure Boredom where I'd googled John's name, that he had taken to writing a blog. And the first thing that popped up was a post about his "strangely likeable" and "charming" new flatmate, none other than The Great Sherlock Holmes himself. I couldn't help but wonder if John had associated himself with him on purpose, just to spite me. But that wasn't a plausible explanation. His natural bad luck and ability to get himself in trouble were a more likely cause. He had outdone himself this time, though.

They had barely been settled in their flat when Sir Boast-A-Lot was asked to work on the case of the serial suicides and John followed him into action because of course he did. I kept an eye on both of them through the whole ordeal, silently fuming. I knew there was nothing between them, but it still didn't seem fair that John had decided to live with – and _trust_ – this lunatic he'd just met, when he had no problem walking out on me after almost a year. Truth be told it didn't seem fair that he chose to be with anyone else at all, he was mine!

I don't know which one of them I cursed the most at the time, but I know I'd vow that there would be repercussions. For now, though, I was determined to sit back and let things pan out. I wanted to know what I was up against.

I was rather impressed with Sherlock and the way he solved the case, but I must say John was the one who surprised me the most. There he is, survivor of three traumatic experiences – abusive father, psychotic boyfriend and _war_ – just back in London, throwing himself into danger once again, following a complete stranger and taking for granted that he had to be right, to the point of shooting yet another individual he didn't know.

By the way, does that strike you as a logical reaction? For all he knew Sherlock could have been the murderer and Hope just another innocent victim, and yet he shoots on sight the moment he sees the two together in a room. Does that bother anyone or is it just me? I mean, he was right in the end, but still, that's what I call a leap of faith.

And that got me in one of the worst rages I've ever experienced. Ask the owners of that restaurant in Thailand. When John made a quick post about the case called _My new flatmate_ and hinted at the oh-so-great murder mystery he was going to retell later, I couldn't help but comment anonymously : _Oh yes, do tell us how Sherlock did it_. I know, it's petty. We've already established I'm a brat, so let's move on.

And I won't go into what it felt like to see John go on and on about his admiration for a man that was resolutely not me.

Anyway, I decided it was time for the game to become more serious. I had the perfect plan, but once again I needed the Great Louse Detective distracted while I set the chessboard, so I sent him the Black Lotus gang. I thought they would rough him up a bit and keep him off my back, but of course I underestimated how prodigiously incompetent some employees turn out to be. Granted I hadn't exactly warned them to watch out for Sherlock Holmes, but I thought they could hold their own against one man and that they at least would bother to make sure they caught the right one.

And yet, and yet...

Next thing I know, I'm having a video chat with a petrified General Shan who thinks she can sweet-talk her way around her mistake. I ask her a detailed recap of what happened, and she has the nerve to tell me that they got the wrong man. _Who did you interrogate?_ I typed, feeling my blood boil, already knowing the answer. She started stammering. "The-the other, his companion. Holmes called him John."

My hands were stiff with anger when I typed, slowly, deliberately, _You have made a terrible mistake,_ and I saw horror fill her eyes. She started trembling, rambling apologies and expressing her gratitude for everything I'd done for her and her peers. I made sure to crush her hopes before giving my best sniper the signal. I don't think she even felt the bullet.

And what does that teach us, children? No matter how angry John can make me, I will destroy anyone who touches a hair on his head. A quick use of my spies told me that Shan had done more than that, given that John was now struggling through a nasty concussion and experienced a temporary peak in the manifestations of his PTSD. She got off easy. And a similar fate befell the Gollem a few months later.

Meanwhile, I was ready for the next game, _The Great Game_ , as John titled it. I couldn't resist testing the waters with a first encounter in the lab. After all, I hadn't been "dating" that little lab mouse, enduring her heinous gift-jumpers, watching her cringeworthy romcoms and listening to her pretend to like me more than Sherlock – as if I cared – all the while putting on my silliest smile for nothing. I had only one fear: that John would give the game away. I kept telling myself that if he hadn't before he wasn't going to now, but what would be his reaction when he saw me stroll into the lab? But that's part on the trade, I guess, the glorious uncertainty of the sport.

I let Molly go in first, pretending not to understand that she just wanted to make Sherlock jealous, bracing myself for the meeting. When I went inside I saw John's eyes widen before he quickly schooled his features into a blank face, but neither Molly nor Sherlock were looking at him so it went unnoticed. I waited, playing shy and awkward, and John said nothing. I saw him glance at my watch and frown though, and I smiled internally at the fact that he noticed.

But I couldn't linger on him too much. I had a part to play, and with John staying silent I was free to go on, pretending to ignore him completely. I even went so far as to force him to move away from me as I approached Sherlock, and I almost cracked up when I received a kick in the ankle for my trouble. There was my no-nonsense John.

I kept up the charade for a moment, but I almost cringed when Holmes muttered, "Gay" under his breath. I hadn't thought he would have said it with me still there. There's manners for you. I left, and later during the day had to face a very angry Molly who accused me of being gay – well, I say _accused_... – and basically took her frustrations out on me while I acted like I gave a damn. I really didn't. I didn't need her anymore.

John started texting me soon after that first meeting, asking me what I was up to, but I ignored him. Do you know how hard it is for a smart-arse to not respond to a text? But I was fairly mad at him for siding with my nemesis, and I had other things on my mind. Contrary to what he naively thought, none of the first four bombs were fake. I don't play fair, and I don't make empty threats. I know he would like me to be better than I am, and there are times I wish I was, for his sake. But I'm not, and I certainly wasn't trying at the time.

I only cared about two things: one, Sherlock was getting really bothersome and therefore had to be stopped, and two, if I could manage a symbolic slap on the wrist to John, I would definitely seize my chance. Imagine my delight, then, when John texted me, saying that he needed to see me. The timing was perfect. I sent two of my men to get him in a cab and waited, trying not to be too excited about the fact that I would be alone with him very soon. I knew that he didn't really want to see me and even if he did, that he probably wouldn't after my scenario played out. But I didn't care. I would take what I could get.

And then, suddenly, my men hushered him in. They were each grabbing an arm and, though he wasn't resisting, they were handling him a bit too roughly for my liking, but I said nothing. I made it a point not to let them know who John really was to me, for his own protection. If one of my rivals got wind of this, there's no telling what they would do to him. So I acted like I was talking to him for the first time, then sent my men away. They exchanged a wary glance but obeyed. They knew better than to discuss my orders.

John tried to play it cool at first and I humored him, but I knew where this was going, and soon it became a fight. Not our most violent one, but a fight nonetheless. And just like I knew he would, he asked me to stop murdering people and was ready to bargain with me. Just as I'd hoped. I explained my projects for him, he disagreed, I threatened him, he complied. I personally strapped the bomb onto him – the _fake_ bomb, obviously. I am prepared to do anything, it's true. Anything _but_ hurting John. Never John.

As I was strapping him in, I noticed he was avoiding my eyes. I fetched a parka and put that on him too, my hands lingering on the lapels a second too long. Then for the final touch, the earpiece. I put it in place, and without my permission my fingers brushed the lobe of his ear, making him shiver before he could stop himself. Memories rushed back of a time when I would put this weakness of his to much more pleasant use. Then I realised I would most likely never have a chance to do it again.

I also realised that I'd been standing there staring at him for a while now. He turned to look at me, his eyes questioning mine, so I turned away and sing-songed, "You look adorable in a parka, Johnny-boy," in a lame attempt to hide my real thoughts. He turned away again.

I cleared my throat and started talking just for the sake of talking. "You know the drill. You repeat what I say word-for-word. One word out of place and he's dead. If he's as smart as you say he is, he won't do anything too rash. Then you both walk free." He nodded and I left, the weight of his silent and defeated presence suddenly too much to bear. Besides, it was time. Set the stage. Let the show begin.

Curtain on the empty swimming pool. Enter Sherlock, blabbing about at no one. Enter John caught in between fires and trying to save both sides. Enter Jim acting like the maniac he is and pretending not to notice the most important person in his world. Sherlock and Jim have a little chat, John attacks Jim, Sherlock gets threatened, John backs down. Jim threatens some more, Sherlock brags, Jim gets bored, exit Jim.

Jim goes around and walks back into the pool the other way, just to show who's boss. Show of lights as John and Sherlock try to figure out what to do. Sherlock threatens to shoot at a lump of tin and kevlar he thinks might explode, John starts to panic because he knows it won't. Jim gets the phone call he always knew he was going to get at that precise moment, Jim threatens one last time for good measure, exit Jim. Jim stands backstage, waiting to hear the sound of the door. Exit John and Sherlock. Curtain.

Later, when he reads the post entitled _The Great Game_ in which John denies all knowledge of the villain of the story, Jim will type an ironic _I do like a good story_ in the comments andpretend not to be upset that, given the choice, John Watson would save Sherlock Holmes and not him.

* * *

 **When Jim Moriarty gets angsty, you know stuff's about to get real.**

 **And as always, thanks for reading!**

 **nerwende**


	20. Only then I am human

_In the madness and soil_

 _Of that sad earthly scene_

 _Only then I am human_

 _Only then I am clean_

Hozier, _Take me to church_

* * *

For a while, I occupied myself with minor cases of blackmail and threats. I needed time to process what might have looked like a successful attempt to get to the Great Sherlock Holmes, but to me the whole thing had a taste of utter failure. That's why I unleashed Irene Adler – a.k.a. The Slut – on Sherlock, to keep him busy. In the end, it worked beyond all expectations. I never thought that the whole damsell in distress act could ever fool him, and yet he pounced on it like the lonely, lonely boy he was. Between her powerful stance, her wit and her beauty – if you're insterested in such things – she seemed like the perfect woman for him.

Lesson number one, boys and girls : if it looks too perfect to be true, it probably is.

So, with Sherlock busy and the rest of my network under control, I had all the time in the world to think things over, namely the one puzzle I had yet to solve : John Watson. Had I been capable of emotions, I would say that the last few months had been a roller coster of emotions. First he doesn't give the game away, then he makes a clear, heroic statement that he chooses dear old Sherlock over me, then I find that letter which makes everything and nothing sound possible.

As you'll remember if you've been paying attention, I said that I had never craved or wanted anything, that I never do anything out of passion or sentiment. So if I said I lost my thirst for crime I wouldn't really be saying much. But still, there was a difference. My activities didn't break the Boredom the way it used to. I cursed John a thousand times for it, even though I'm fairly sure he would have been pleased to know he had somehow managed to make crime no fun for me. He's always been selfish that way.

Getting him out of my thoughts was impossible, getting him out of my life was tedious. So then, Jim, what did you do? I'm ashamed to say I did what most romantic idiots do : I kept trying. Except that there was nothing romantic about the way I did it. I stalked him, obsessed over him, and hissed like a rabid cat every time he had a new girlfriend – which was about three times a month on average, for Christ's sake.

Though let it be said in my defense that I never once did anything to hurt these women. Just like I never did anything to hurt Molly Hooper. If it isn't justified, murder isn't fun. I don't do what I do just to kill people. That's not the fun part. The fun is everything that comes before and after. And if there's nothing in it for me before or after, I'm not interested. You wouldn't believe how many potential clients found that notion incomprehensible.

The Slut did her homework and reported the information she was paid to get. I'm told there was a healthy amout of brotherly feud over that which, I'll admit, was a bit satisfactory to me. But not as satisfactory as my reunion with John. Again I hadn't thought it would work so well. But for that one, glorious night, I had my John back, and everything was deliciously wrong again.

I knew that when morning came I'd have to let him go again, that he wasn't actually back for good, but it didn't seem to matter at the time. I had fun sending him little messages, notes on his desk at work, books at home, and seeing him attempting to give me gruff responses even though we both knew he loved it. It all still seemed fragile, though, and I couldn't help but think that every attempt could be the last one. So I made the most of it and for a while that was almost enough.

That is until Big Brother decided to interfere. I was strolling down the street, minding my own business, when a black van stopped next to me and men grabbed me, one holding each arm while another put some sort of cloth bag on my head. They bundled me into the vehicle and drove off. My hands were cuffed behind my back and Holmes' unbearably condescending voice came at me through the darkness. "Good day, Mister Moriarty, you were being rather careless just there, weren't you?"

Well, _someone_ clearly is a sore loser. Methinks Mister Holmes The Eldest's pride had been badly bruised when his little brother bumbled about the Irene Adler case. I told him as much, and one of his goons punched me in the abdomen. Some people can be _so_ touchy.

They lead me into this mysterious building where they took my coat, my wallet, my keys, my phone, and shoved me into a cold cell. Boring. I would be fed in the morning, interrogated for the better part of the day, and sent back in my cell at night. Then, every hour or so, someone would bang violently on my door and shout abuse.

I knew what they were doing. They were depriving me of sleep. That's when I started to worry. Between the hunger – I was only fed once a day, after all – the exhaustion and the ever-present threat of the occasional beating worsening, how long until I said something I shouldn't have? I had seen – and led – enough interrogations to know that, given the right amount of pressure, even the strongest of men would end up cracking. And if John's name ever escaped me, he was a dead man.

One day Holmes himself came in and shoved my own phone under my nose, waiting for my eyes to be focused enough to read. It was an anonymous text, but I knew exactly who had sent it. _Call me, I'm worried_. I smiled ruefully. This was John all over. Mother-henning was a compulsion of his, even if he had to be careful about it.

Holmes looked down at me expectantly. "Who sent this text?" I shrugged. He nodded at his man, who slapped me hard. I straightened up. "Who?" Holmes insisted. I looked away pointedly and got slapped again. "Who?

\- You're starting to sound like an owl, you know."

This time I got punched in the gut, but I was too busy being pleased with myself to care. The Ice Man bent to look me in the eye, his voice razor-sharp. "Tell me who it is.

\- My lover," I said, smiling and winking at him. He got up with a huff and nodded at his man. I was punched in the face so hard I fell off the chair.

Lesson number two : telling the truth will get you nowhere.

Holmes picked up his umbrella as I was pulled up and forced back on the chair. "We will find that person, Mister Moriarty, be assured of that. Maybe we can arrange for the two of you to share a cell. Since you seem so fond of them, I'm sure you'll like it."

I knew John well enough to know he'd been careful but still, I was unnerverd. If Mister Not-So-Minor-Part-Of-The-British-Government realized John's... indiscretion, then not only will that make him an accomplice, it would make him a traitor.

"Or maybe," I called after Holmes as he was strolling out of the room, "We can make a deal, you and I. After all," I looked around the room, "This is all rather tedious, isn't it?"

He hesitated, then slowly walked back toward me. I knew I'd won. "What sort of deal?" he asked suspiciously.

I grinned at him. "Quid pro quo, Clarice."

You know the rest. I told him what I wanted him to know and he told me what he wanted me to know. The next day I was free.

My first reflex was to check up on John. I was fairly certain Holmes hadn't gotten to him or he would have been gloating by then, but I had to make sure. I asked for update and got a detailed report of Sherlock and John's merry adventures in Baskerville. It turned out they'd been hunting a gigantic hound, which had almost succeeded in driving Sherlock mad.

Aw, that sounded fun, why couldn't I have been part of that?

Anyway, I was also told about an experiment Sherlock had performed on John in the lab, and my hatred for the man reached unconceivable heights. Apparently he had deemed it perfectly acceptable to drug an army veteran with an hallucination-inducing substance and lock him alone in a lab while inoculating him with the idea that a monstrous dog was in there with him.

I'm not a doctor or indeed an expert in post-traumatic stress disorder, but I'm pretty sure that none of it sounds like a great idea. By the time I heard about this they'd been home for three days. I asked if John had been showing signs of trauma, and was replied that he'd been battling vivid nightmares, flashbacks and hallucinations ever since they came back.

And _that_ , boys and girls, is the moment I really decided Sherlock Holmes had to go.

In the meantime, though, I had to see for myself that John would be alright. I booked a hotel room doctor's instincts kicked in immediately and he seemed about ready to fuss, but that's not what I wanted from him. The fact that he answered the "are you alright" question was testament to how bad it actually was. He told me the whole story and even though I already knew, I let him. I wanted to hear his side, anyway.

He spared me no detail, confirming everything the report had said, and I felt my blood boil. But as soon as I started to imply that Sherlock was to blame, lo and behold how quickly John took his defence. I felt like I needed a win, after the week I'd had, and invited John to stay for the night. To my delighted surprise, he didn't put up much of a fight before crawling into bed with me. I wanted to say something, make some sort of comment on his behavior, but I ended up falling asleep in the process of taking the breath to speak. I have never slept better than when John is lying beside me.

I woke up two hours later, not knowing what had awoken me. I looked ahead and out the window, and the mere fact that I could actually _see_ the window told me everything I needed to know : John wasn't with me anymore. I sat up, blinking while my eyes adjusted to the dark. John's clothes were still neatly folded on the chair, so he couldn't have left. Then I noticed the bathroom door was open. I was about to go back to sleep, thinking that a trip to the loo wasn't worth my sleep, when I heard a gasp of breath. And just like that I knew what had happened.

I got up immediately, all thoughts of sleep gone, and padded into the bathroom, flicking the light on as I went. John was sitting up against the tub, hugging his knees to himself and shaking all over, mumbling "No, no, no, no, no"over and over. I sighed and got on my knees next to him, putting my arms around him and letting my right hand crawl up to his hair, and I started whispering words of comfort to try to get him out it. It was the first time I witnessed one of his panick attacks, and I have to say I wasn't sure what I was doing.

But I must have done something right, because after a while the shaking subsided. I heard him heave a deep breath, then his head came up slowly and he looked up at me. I almost made a comment, but he threw himself at me and held on tight, his breathing labored. I felt something in my chest, a strange throb, as I hugged him back and listened to him try to control his breathing.

We stayed like that for a while, him working on calming his nerves and me working on pretending my heart hadn't started beating faster. When I thought both of us had managed to rein ourselves in, I got up, pulling him along, and led him back to bed. I held him close to me, my hand on his chest as my brain automatically started counting his heartbeats. It suddenly struck me that this was the first night we were spending together in a very long time.

When morning came and I woke up, John had turned in his sleep and was now on his back, his face nuzzled in my chest. I wanted to stay, to enjoy what little time I could with John, but I knew that it would only have put him in danger, so I got up, showered, got dressed and left. I disliked walking away from him that way, but it was for his own good.

Besides, I had a nemesis to squash.

* * *

 **Never anger Jim Moriarty, we all know how that ends up!**

 **Thanks for reading, see you next chapter!**

 **nerwende**


	21. This way or no way

_This way or no way_

 _You know I'll be free_

 _Just like that bluebird_

 _Now ain't that just like me?_

David Bowie, _Lazarus_

* * *

As I've mentioned before, my rivalry with Sherlock had started very early on, before I'd even met John Watson. To me Sherlock seemed like a dare, a challenge, a mind that could finally rival my own. I had planned on dragging our little game out, making him dance some more. I had great plans for my nemesis. But all of that was shattered after that night John and I spent.

It's funny, because it wasn't what the chastely romantic call a "night of passion" – and what the rest of us call a shag – but it was the night I realised that whatever John had felt for me before was still there. It was all well and good when we would meet up and ravish each other but that night, that night that saw us be together, really _together_ , is what decided me to do away with the obstacle.

John obviously still wanted me, and the only reason he wasn't completely mine was his ridiculous flatmate. Sherlock was standing between me and John, and that I wouldn't take. Besides, he'd hurt John and never even noticed, and that's not something I was willing to forgive or forget.

Now, before I go on, I'm going to let you in on a little secret : killing Sherlock wasn't the plan. Or rather, it was plan B. Plan A was simple : destroy Sherlock's reputation as London's great detective and quite possibly land him in prison – that would just about make up for the Baskervill fiasco. Then, I would "convince" John of the lies Sherlock had told the world, John would "believe" me and walk away from Sherlock, and if by any chance he chose to follow me, who would I have been to turn him down?

It was perfect. Sherlock would get his punishment – nothing Big Brother Mycroft couldn't fix, I'm sure – London would let me go an innocent man and John would finally be mine again.

That is, of course, if John had stuck to the plan. Granted I hadn't exactly _explained_ it to him, but no one will convince me that he didn't figure it out. Of course, I miscalculated badly when it came to factoring in John's integrity, and Plan A crashed and burned, while I fumed and thundered.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?

So I elaborated this plan, this crazy, brilliant, insane, manical plan to destroy Sherlock Holmes as the world knew him. Assembling the puzzle pieces – the mercury, the witless journalist, the file of fake evidence – was easy enough. Any old ruffian could have done it, really. The only real fun part was sitting back and watching doubt creep into the good people's minds.

Well, that and stealing the crown jewels. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have fun doing it. John would tell you that as long as I have a distraction and good music, I can never be bored. And seriously, the look on their faces when they found me was worth the trouble.

I let myself be arrested and go to trial. I didn't expect John to show up, but he did. Faithful, faithful John. Only I'm not sure who he was being faithful to, Sherlock or me? I chose not to wonder that day. I glanced at him every once in a while, even made faces at him. I would have given anything to see him smile at the time, but his poker face was firmly in place. My staunch soldier.

That little stunt landed me countless offers and pledges of allegiance. More than I knew what to do with. But I could use the extra arms, and who doesn't benefit from good publicity? Sherlock, of course, saw right through that, but I didn't mind. He doesn't know it, but he only ever saw what I was willing to let him see. I paid him a visit in Baker Street, to excite his interest, make sure he wasn't suspicious toward John and assure myself I had his full attention.

As long as the audience looks at the magician, his assistant can get away with pretty much anything. I know John wouldn't like to be referred to as the magician's assistant, but that's, broadly speaking, what he was. Sherlock took the bait, and I left feeling confident that all was going according to plan. The board was set, let the game of chess begin.

I paid John a visit as well, and nearly lost my composure at the coldness of his tone. For the first time I started to doubt. Would he choose Sherlock over me again? I decided to drop the act, just for a moment, and be truthful to him. He softened and tried to appeal to me. I was genuinely sorry I wasn't able to meet his demand, but I reassured myself, _Soon. Everything will fall into place very soon._

He went on with his life, I went on with my plan. The next two months were spent planning and anticipating, and when the curtain finally rose on the stage, I was more than ready to be done with it.

Act One saw the Great Louse Detective investigate the abduction of two poor little orphans. I knew it was a cheap shot, targeting children, but I just figured it would motivate him to solve it quickly. I was surprised, actually, that it took him so long, that's why I sent him an incentive in the form of a fax. What would it look like if the kids kicked off and the whole reputation-ruining thing went up in flame?

I know how this sounds. If you want a sentimental account of the events, ask John. That's not my department. Those kids were means to an end, nothing more. A factor in the equation. I'm sure that's the reason why John reacted the way he did, but at the time it didn't even register as something A Bit Not Good, as he'd always called it. It only registered as _fun_.

I have to say, watching Sherlock come apart as everything came crashing down on him was very entertaining. That's why I couldn't resist that little stunt in the cab. And boy, did he dance on that one. From the safety of my lair I watched the live footage of the cameras I'd planted in 221b, grinning to myself as I saw him suspect that John, precious John was starting to doubt him.

I knew he was wrong – after all, John had too thorough a knowledge of the players involved to be fooled – but watching Sherlock yell at him, trying to justify himself by pointing out my evilness... I even thought he'd manage to piss John off, and wouldn't _that_ have been fun? Probably would have helped me, too. But as it is, my John was not in the least bit fazed. Scotland Yard, though, I had the delight of noticing they'd followed exactly the scenario I had in mind.

I laughed as they took Sherlock away. I laughed even harder when I witnessed John hitting the chief superintendent. I wasn't worried about him, actually him being with Sherlock facilitated the next part of my plan. I did grumble to myself as the CCTV footage revealed them to be running across London hand in hand. I knew it meant nothing, but still. No touching Jim's things.

On to the next step : ensuring John's flight with me. I gave them a few moments in that stupid journalist's flat – it had been so easy to feed her my story it wasn't even funny. Apparently Sherlock had shown her disrespect. Really, when it came to convincing people he was evil, Sherlock had truly met me halfway.

I came in, playing my part, or rather the part of my part. Sherlock thought I was trying to convince John I was innocent, while I was actually giving John a way out. I thought he would understand, follow my lead, act surprised and hurt then storm out, only to return to me later. I thought it would be that simple.

Of course now I know better. John will forever be my variable, one I simply can't try to figure out.

As it turns out, I was met with John's look of utter anger, and he met my every explanation and apology with a "You're Moriarty!" or a "You were going to blow me up!" I tried and I tried and I tried, but still he refused to listen. In a last ditch attempt, I asked What's-Her-Face to show him the file. I gave Sherlock a mocking smile purely because my attention couldn't be focused on John for too long, and I needed to keep the charade going.

I want to make one thing clear : every apology I gave John that night, I meant. Not only because I was trying to appeal to him, but also because I could see Plan A was failing, badly. I only had made another one out of habit. The possibility that John would reject me had never even occured to me.

But now, faced with his angry denial, I had no other choice. I'm not blaming this on him, though. Who can blame him for refusing the maniac who had blown up an old lady, broken into the Tower of London and poisoned children? But the way I saw it, John had refused me and chosen his friend over me again, a friend who was intent on destroying me. What choice did I have?

Rethorical question, boys and girls. I know what you're thinking.

But the fact is, I had gotten John back, and he knew who I was, and he was still there. He had come to every appointment I'd made and even made a few of his own. When I disappeared for a while he had worried, and when he realized I'd gotten hurt he'd tried to help. When Sherlock had betrayed him – yes, _betrayed_ , don't try to convince me otherwise – he had come to _me_ , and I had been able to comfort him like he had comforted me so many times in the past. I thought that this was it, that I finally had him back.

When you've been alone for the better part of your life and someone like John Watson graces you with his presence and his love, losing him makes your old loneliness that much harder to bear. I don't fool myself, I know I don't deserve his love – or anyone's, really – but that never stopped me from craving it. Craving him, just him. So when, after all of this, he rejected me again, looked me in the eyes with anger and yelled at me, letting me know he wasn't coming with me, I almost lost it. As undeserving as I felt, I couldn't stop the feeling of utter loss that came with seeing the one person you care about reject you.

And still, my one real weakness allowed an alternative theory : maybe it was just a matter of loyalty? Maybe John was uneasy about letting Sherlock down, maybe once Sherlock was dealt with, he would come to me. Maybe, maybe, maybe... You see, even sociopaths fool themselves.

I left Sherlock to work out the next steps. God knows where John went. The two had somehow become separated. Good. If I could just keep John away long enough, he might be spared the worst of it. But sure enough, he came back to Sherlock. He always comes back to Sherlock. Again, I can't blame him. I just wish...

But wishing doesn't really get you anywhere, does it?

I texted one of my men, and he called John, saying he was a doctor and Mrs. Hudson had been shot. Cheap shot, again. Nothing gets John into action than his doctor's instinct. But I needed him out of the way. I didn't want him to witness the next part. One, because I knew it would break his heart and two, because I knew he'd never forgive me.

I got a text from Sherlock, and showed up on the roof accordingly. Looking back, I realize I should have expected a set up, but at the time I was too upset to even consider it. I think I did consider the possibility of dying on that rooftop. Who knows? Maybe Sherlock would end up grabbing me and throwing us both off of that rooftop. But at this point, I didn't care.

As he was making his way on the rooftop, my phone started ringing and that god-awful Bee Gees song filled my ears. I only use it as a ringtone because John had told me that the rythm of _Stayin' Alive_ was the rythm of CPR and somehow that song, of all the ones I'd been subjected to by him, was the most significant one . Go figure.

I pulled out my phone and saw John's name flash on the screen. He was probably going to either yell at me or ask me what I was up to. I held the phone on my open hand, letting it ring, listening to the dreadful lyrics, telling myself I was protecting him. Then Sherlock was there and the game was on. I played my part, the part of the mad villain, and rambled about the plan. I couldn't believe how easily I'd fooled him with that code thing, but then that's the fraility of genius, isn't it? Wanting everything to be clever, to be perfect.

Sherlock understood what I wanted from him and argued accordingly, so of course I threatened him. That's what I _do_. Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. Except... no. Make that two. You didn't think I'd ever risk having John shot, did you? I had a gunman aiming for him for appearances' sake, but he had a different order than the others. He was to shoot only on my command. A command which, of course, he would never get.

I could see Sherlock become worried, then anxious, then resigned. I thought I would get him to do it and be able to walk away, but of course he put up one more fight. He thought he could convince me to change my mind. _Me_. If I didn't stop my activities for John, what are the odds I'd do it for him? I could see he needed an extra push, so I decided it was time to go out with a bang. All this quite literally.

You've seen movies before, you know that with the right tools, make up and yes, quite a few pints of your own blood – regularly collected during my two hiatus – it's very possible to stage a rather convincing suicide. It felt right to use a point blank bullet from John's gun. He has yelled at me for it since so I've revised my opinion on that, but still.

I could hear Sherlock go frantic, then call John on the phone. His words made me realise John was down there and would see everything. I schooled my features into a dead stare, but inside I was cringing. I didn't want him to be there, and I certainly didn't want him to see that. _Some_ people were obviously less considerate. And I thought his experiment in Baskerville had been cruel.

Sherlock jumped and I could hear John's anguished cry from where I was. I sat up, absentmindedly wiping the blood off my neck. I started pacing, listening to the commotion in the street. I didn't dare look down lest someone might spot me. I decided to wait for a while, thinking that John might figure out I was there. And after a while, he did.

I was on the opposite side of the roof by then, so his back was towards me as he stopped in front of the blood puddle. I could see by the set of his shoulders that he was in shock. I wanted to walk up to him, but decided to leave him have a moment. When he walked to the edge of the rooftop, though, I got scared. For a moment I thought he'd want to follow Sherlock, so I had to say something.

The look on his eyes when he turned to face me was harder to cope with than the gun he pointed at me. I would have understood if he had chosen to kill me right then and there, but he didn't. Encouraged by the thought that if he was going to shoot me he would have done it right away, I started rambling, explaining to him why I'd done what I'd done, how I wanted him to come back to me, how I was going to kiss it all better.

His face fell and he started crying. I didn't realize right away that it was not just out of grief but out of guilt as well. He had taken it to meaning what had happened was his fault. I kept going on and on until his fist connected with my jaw hard enough to make me fall backward, his eyes dark as they truly saw the monster for the first time.

The hatred and disgust in his eyes, the insult he hurled at me turned my nervousness into anger. I knew it was over. I had gone too far. I had lost him. There was nothing I could do that would make it better. So what did I do? I got defensive, which for me is another word for "cruel". I taunted him, confident that he would just stomp away, like he always did. But he didn't.

He shot me.

Well, shot _at_ me. Even in his state of anguish, I have no doubt that he would have killed me if he had really wanted to. Instead I felt a rush of wind as something wet and warm started running down the side of my head. To this day my scalp bears the scar of the day I broke the only man I care about. I stared at the spot of the ground that the bullet had hit. I heard John's footsteps retreating until he was gone. The game was over. There was no winner. 

* * *

**Looks like John wasn't the only one who lost something with The Fall.**

 **Where does Jim go from there? Stay tuned and you'll know!**

 **nerwende**


	22. I come undone

_I'm contemplating, thinking about thinking_

 _It's overrated, just get another drink and_

 _Watch me come undone_

Robbie Williams, _Come undone_

* * *

I left London after that, but I had men there to keep me updated on John. I wasn't planning on interfering, though. He had made his position very clear, and I spent many a month cursing him and vowing never to waste my time on him again. But when all you've ever really had is one person, and when that person is John Watson, I dare anyone to let go easily. I saw him despair, I saw him grieve, I saw him going through the motion.

Then one day I saw him fall in love.

When I saw a picture of the woman he was seeing, I started laughing hysterically. I knew her. She was the assassin who had come to me three years earlier to fix her new identity for her. I had found a stillborn baby who had been born at roughly the same time as her. Dead easy. I had only done it to occupy myself.

And now there she was, having drinks with John and snogging him in his exam room. I could see my men exchange worried glances as I laughed like the maniac I was. Doctor John Watson, Trouble Magnet, MD never failed to impress. I considered intervening, but then I remembered the kind of person that woman was. She was a bit like me (quirky and fearless), a bit like Sherlock (smart and perceptive) and a bit like John (kind and caring). She was perfect for him.

I was laying low but still had a business to run. Especially as _someone_ had taken to slowly destroying my branches one by one. It wasn't really a surprise that Sherlock had survived. I don't think I ever really thought he was dead. I'm sure he was quite proud of the good work he was doing. He will never know how funny it was to see him deploy so much energy destroying my decoy bases and leave happily while my real players came back to their posts.

When he got to Serbia though, one of my men told me he'd spotted Big Brother in the camp. I told him to play along and, when Sherlock couldn't resist showing off in a torture session, he pretended to bite and took off. As if he didn't know just _who_ it was he'd laid his hands on.

If Mycroft Holmes was there, on the field, it could only mean one thing. The line forms on the right, babe, now that Sherly's back in town!

Back home John was spotted shopping for a ring. You would think it made me mad, but I'd seen the pictures and CCTV footage. John was happy. _She_ was making him happy. I might be a selfish bastard, but even I couldn't deny him that, especially after what I'd done to him. I had lost all hope of ever getting him back, so at least "Mary" was a good alternative.

Sherlock came back, got his ass rightfully kicked by John – I have the footage, by the way, I watch it whenever I need a good laugh – but eventually, as I always thought he would, got John's forgiveness.

Of course he earned that by pulling John from a bonfire. When I only got the news on _that_ one two days later my informant had to be replaced. I investigated and found out who it was that had targeted him. Because he had survived the ordeal I decided to sit and watch, not very keen on making my big come back just yet, but I made a mental note to get back at Magnussen as soon as the opportunity would rise. Sherlock then solved the case to everyone's awe and enchantment, and Moran was arrested. That was a bummer. He was one of my best.

Then came the wedding. I don't believe John noticed the magpies painted on the walls, or at least he's never mentioned it. That was me saying a subtle hi. True, Boredom had a lot to do with that as well, but still, I liked the idea. I know he hasn't missed the telegram though. I took a book off a shelf not so long ago and when I opened it, the little piece of paper with _Congratulations to the happy couple, you deserve each other and all the best, Isaac_ on it fell to the ground.

I'm pretty sure he's kept all these little things I sent his way. Reason says he shouldn't have, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't pleased by it. I don't know what his reaction was when he found it, but I can only guess he didn't take this the wrong way. Good, because I'd meant it.

Then Magnussen had to strike again, and this time he hit pretty damn close. I couldn't help but be impressed at the mess he'd caused. I'd be envious if that man wasn't so repulsive. First he threatens, then "Mary" – sorry, Mary – shoots Sherlock, then Sherlock and John find out about her past, then the tearful reunion after His Majesty pulls through and then the Appledore showdown.

Before we get to that, can we discuss the fact that John forgave Mary for something that closely ressembled the things he couldn't forgive _me_ for? True, I never carried his child, but that wasn't my fault. God knows we'd followed the procreation process step by step quite a few times.

Anyway, back to Appledore. When I heard what Magnussen had put John through, I wished I could ressucitate him just to kill him all over again. My John was a soldier, a strong man who could endure pain and injury like no one else I know. But the sheer pettiness and humiliation of that interaction, that's not something John would have coped with so well. We've talked about it since, and he told me that it had been one of the worst experiences of his life. That's something, coming from him.

Sherlock ended up shooting the bastard, and that's the one time in my life when I was actually on his side. I wouldn't have had it any other way. But then of course, the government had to spoil everything. Big Brother was sending Sherlock on a suicide mission as a way to avoid prison for him. How thoughtful.

So basically, John was losing his best friend again, and the only person in London that was _some_ fun to play with was leaving? That was not on. Besides, he'd done something good for John, so I figured I owed him one. I used my usual flair for the dramatics to let people know I was still around so don't you dare get rid of Sherlock Holmes just yet. Well it worked : London got in a bloody frenzy after that. Always nice to know your public misses you.

While I planned and pondered, something terrible happened. Both Mary and the child died. Now _that_ was not something I'd anticipated. Since I always lied to my men about my real motives behind my close surveillance orders, I couldn't exactly ask them to put John on suicide watch, but still I worried.

So far in life, John had had to deal with an abusive father, an uncaring mother, an alcoholic sister, a psychotic killer of a boyfriend, a bullet wound and case of PTSD courtesy of the British Army, a sociopathic best friend who had let him grieve and blame himself for two years, a loving wife who turned out to be an ex-assassin then promptly died giving birth to their stillborn daughter.

For the next few weeks I kept a vigilant eye on him, half sure I would hear any day now that he'd died by his own gun. I wanted nothing more than to go to him, but I figured it might only make things worse. The last thing I wanted was to give him the final push. I forced myself to stay away, but still have a condoleance card delivered to him. I don't know if he kept that too.

I wasn't surprised or even upset when Sherlock decided John was too self-destructive to accompany him on cases anymore. It looks, to my dismay, like we were agreeing again : John couldn't be trusted with his own safety. I only worried that the inactivity would make things worse.

Then, when a year had gone by, I decided enough was enough. I was not going to let him wallow in his misery any longer. And if he ended up throttling me... well, at least he would be doing _something_. I sat across from him in that pub, and when time went by and he wasn't killing me, I decided to have a real talk with him. The fact that he was heavily intoxicated helped; I told myself he probably wouldn't remember half of it anyway. So I did the thing I've never done with anyone else : I let my guard down. I let our roles reverse themselves, let him spit the venom while I spoke truthfully. It was a change. I don't know how he does it.

When he was too drunk and exhausted to go on, I bodily lifted him off of his chair and let him lean on me as I walked him out of the bar. Few people know John sometimes gets terrible motion sickness, so I wasn't exactly keen to put him in a cab or drive him home. Besides, he'd chosen a location fairly close to Baker Street, an indication that getting heroically drunk was his intention all along. That detail didn't escape me, but I wish it had.

He started mumbling more or less incoherently, words like "alone", "betrayed", "cursed" and "piss of, Jim" tumbling out of his mouth as I stirred him onward. I tuned out for most of it because I knew I was at least partly responsible for it.

The real challenge started when I got him into 221b. Nicking his key was disappointingly easy, but once inside I had to be quick lest the good Mrs. Hudson heard us. Have you ever tried to quickly haul a plastered individual up two flights of stairs? By all means it should be considered a full workout session. Especially when said individual is insisting they can do it themselves, so fuck off Jim, and trying to slip out of your grasp.

On three occasions I thought he would fall over backwards and down the stairs and at worst he would have died, which was unacceptable, and at best the not-your-housekeeper-landlady would have come out of her flat to find one of her lodgers passed out at the bottom of the stairs while England's worst criminal looked on from the landing. Not so great either.

Finally, finally, we made it to their flat, at which point John shoved me into the wall and hurried to the bathroom. I sighed, rubbing at my shoulder – left one, like him – and following him, dragging my feet. As I may have mentioned before, I don't like to get my hands dirty, so I was rather dreading the mess I might discover there. But thankfully, he had made it just in time.

I walked up to him, flushing the toilet for him and fetching him a glass of water. When he had rinsed his mouth with it, he leaned forward and rested his head against my chest. The motion startled me and a strange nostalgic feeling came upon me, the same kind as the one that had hit me in the swimming pool all those years ago. I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed comforting circles between his shoulderblades, but I knew I couldn't linger there.

Reluctantly I pulled him off me, helped him to his feet and drug him up the last flight of stairs into his bedroom. I sat him on his bed and knelt to take off his shoes and socks, then divested him of his jacket, cardigan, shirt – who needs so many layers, anyway? – and finally his trousers. He was silent throughout, looking thoroughly exhausted. I gave him a gentle push and he went to lie down on the bed. I pulled the comforter over him and ran my hand through his hair to help soothing him.

He mumbled something I didn't get but as I got up, he repeated it : "You waited f'r me."

I smiled to myself and leaned in, whispering "I'll always wait for you" in his ear and kissing his temple. A second later he was asleep. I fetched him a bucket – can't be too careful – a glass of water and an asprin and quietly let myself out of the flat.

I mulled the events of the evening over for the rest of the night, and I found myself getting angry again. Why on earth had I chosen to see him again? I knew it was a mistake and I'd done it anyway. It was illogical, irrational and frankly ridiculous!

I had told myself I wouldn't go after John anymore. Yes, I was still watching him from afar, but he'd made his choice and I respected it! And yet here I was, back to square one. "I don't care, I don't want, I don't love," I repeated over and over again when I got home. It was my mantra for when John stirred dreadful _feelings_ in me. I don't care, I don't want, I don't love. I don't care, I don't want, I don't love. I don't care, I don't want, I don't love-

Just him.

* * *

 **John is good at making people grow feelings, isn't he?**

 **As you know if you've read Part I, the great reunion is coming! But what will it mean for Jim?**

 **nerwende**


	23. Can the riddle get solved?

_All that no one sees, you see  
What's inside of me  
Every nerve that hurts, you heal  
Deep inside of me  
You don't have to speak  
I feel emotional landscapes  
They puzzle me, I'm confused  
Can the riddle get solved?  
_

Björk, _Jóga_

* * *

I didn't hear from John in six months – which I spent, once again, in petty thefts and easy blackmail, you know, passing the time – and thought I never would again. I convinced myself I'd imagined the trace of affection I'd seen in him that night at the bar. The thought that he could want me back after everything was unconceivable. I could easily have fallen back into the pattern of revenge and take it out on Sherlock again, but somehow it didn't feel as funny as it had.

I was in the middle of blackmailing the head of an american group of assassins – say what you will about the Americans, but when it comes to making people disappear, they're surprisingly efficient – whom I was hoping to recruit. Of course, that always involved a healthy amount of threat, and believe me when I say I'm terrific at it.

But this time, it was different. I had hinted that I might just give the man's address to a few "friends" of mine that would have been more than happy to have a nice chat with him, when the man said with a smirk : "I don't think you will do that, Mister Moriarty. Because I have something that could interest you."

I heaved a big, dramatic sigh and rolled my eyes. "Oh, if I had a nickel..." I sing-songed, just to show him how little I thought of him.

But his smile only broadened. "I have a team straining at the leash to attack Sherlock Holmes."

I hope to God I didn't look as startled as I felt, but in all fairness I probably did. I didn't give a toss what happened to Sherlock – though I would very much have loved to be the cause of it – but I knew that _somebody_ wouldn't just sit and watch, especially considering how reckless he was growing to be.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, going for nonchalance. "And what, pray tell, are the orders you gave your team?"

He shifted in his seat and leaned forward a bit, his voice dropping confidentially. How stupid a thing to do when we were the only two people in the room. "It's very simple," he said, "Sherlock Holmes himself isn't an easy one to catch and basically doesn't care what happens to him. But his friend, that Doctor Wilson-

\- Watson," I interrupted abruptly, "He's not a character from _House, M.D_.

\- Watson, yes. Well, if we can get our hands on him, we get our hands on Holmes."

I stared at him for a second too long, and my jaw was set too tight to pretend to be flippant anymore. "Oh, that's very very clever," I growled, sarcasm seeping through every word, "No one's ever thought of that before. Hurt John Watson and Holmes will destroy you before you even know he's coming."

The man blinked at me, then gave a dry laugh, "I didn't say anything about hurting him, Mister Moriarty," he said, talking slowly for effect, "We are going to kill him."

Sherlock Holmes prides himself in saying that he doesn't have a heart. I never deluded myself that much. I do have a heart, it's just made of steal, is all. But on this one occasion I swear it missed a couple of beats. My hands balled into fists in my pockets and I could almost taste blood in my mouth as I found myself staring at his jugular. I seriously considered ripping it out with my teeth.

"If you kill Watson, Holmes will get revenge.

\- Yes, but he'll get reckless. Let's face it, if we kill his little boyfriend-

\- _Best_ friend.

\- Best friend, he'll go mad with grief and not think clearly. He'll be so set on revenge he will fall into a trap more than readily."

It did make sense, and I could see it happening too. I turned away from the man, not trusting myself to hold back long enough to get the crucial information I needed. "You said your team was straining at the leash," I said, addressing my words to the wall, "What orders did you give them, exactly?"

I could hear the rusting of fabric as he shrugged. "They are to attack tonight. A proper execution. I even told them to cut off the head and put it in Holmes' fridge." He chuckled again, "Nice touch, eh?"

My head snapped to look back at him and his heinous laughter was cut short. "Call them off," I said, marching up toward him, doing my best to impress him into compliance, "Holmes is my business. If anyone is to be the end of him, it will be me. And you don't get to take away my best bargaining chip."

He looked at me for a second, obviously gauging me, then his eyes narrowed. He cocked his head to the side as if he was sizing me up – something I never appreciated, understandably. "Why do you keep on defending Watson?" he asked bluntly.

I blinked, taken aback. Of all the times that man could have chosen to be perceptive... "What the hell are you talking about?

\- I got his name wrong, you corrected me. I called him Holmes' boyfriend, you snapped at me. I suggest taking him out, you want to stop me. Why do you care so much about him?

\- I don't _care_!" I shouted, and I could have kicked myself for how petulant I sounded, "He's a means to an end, an important piece on my chessboard and I'd hate for some pathetic excuse for a criminal to take it away."

He shook his head slowly, gravely. "No, no, no, that's not it. You're being way too defensive, right now.

\- Believe what you want," I ground out, "I don't have to justify myself to you. I am telling you-

\- I struck a chord, didn't I?" He interrupted, smiling triumphantly up at me. "You care about Doctor Watson!" he proclaimed, and I had to remind myself that I was wearing my best suit and that staining it with that scum's blood would be a waste.

"I won't tell you again," I said tightly, "Call off your men right now, or I'll make you drink gasoline and light you up from the inside out."

To my utter horror and disgust, he laughed even harder. "Oh, that is _precious_!" he said, actually clapping his hands in delight, "Does Holmes know that his worst enemy is in love with his best friend? Or maybe that's the reason why you two hate each other so much in the first place?"

My breathing was quickening and I could feel my hands start to shake. That bastard was throwing me into a fit and he was too stupid to even notice. Indeed, he went on : "You're a very clever man, Mister Moriarty, but here's one thing you don't get : I know you're going to kill me. I just found out about your, ah, interest in the good doctor, and I know you won't run the risk of me spreading it. I'm not going to leave this room, am I? Well if I'm going to die, I'm definitely going to go with a smile on my face, knowing that I've actually succeeded on bringing both Sherlock Holmes and James fucking Moriarty to their knees."

The rest of it is a bit of a blur. I know I threw myself at him and we fell to the floor, me punching and clawing and biting, him trying to protect himself from the assault. I remember the terror in his eyes when he noticed the sheer madness in mine. Too late. I know that in the process he managed to throw me to the ground and stomp on my ankle, probably in an attempt to run away. But the thing is, when I'm in a murderous rage, the only thing that can stop me would probably be a bullet to the head. I got up and went directly for his throat, my nails digging, my fingers squeezing.

My men burst in a moment later to find me kicking the lifeless corpse and snarling incoherently. They had to pull me off of him, and that's when I really snapped back to reality. I barked quick orders at them to find the man's team and stop them before they could reach John. Thankfully, his henchmen were not nearly as efficient as mine. They were all aprehended and executed. My men were so frightened by my actions that they didn't even think to question my order. They knew better, anyway.

When all was said and done and adrenaline wore off, I found myself crawling back to my house, showering with cold water, tying an ice patch around my ankle and crashing into bed. I was woken by the sound of the front door closing. I glanced up at the clock and noticed I'd slept for fifteen hours straight. I got rid of the ice patch – which was little more than a soaked plastic bag at this point. I was so sore it took me three goes to get out of bed and when I did, I had to walk impossibly slowly as I limped my way downstairs.

The thought hazily occured that it could be someone sent up there to kill me. I could see the headline from there : _England's worst criminal mastermind found dead at home in his pajamas_. Sherlock would probably die laughing. Granted I knew there was little chance that I would die back on the throne with the crown jewels on – I'd had that chance once and it didn't happen – but still, there was a limit to what my pride could endure.

But when I reached the landing, who should I spot, completely drenched and making his slow way up my stairs? The very man I had just killed for. And for the second time in two days, I found myself standing there stupidly, at a loss. What on earth was he doing here? Was he going to yell at me about something? What had I done this time? How had he even _got_ in? Did he still have the key? Why did he still have the key? Why wasn't he saying anything? Why did he have a duffle bag with him? Why...

My racing thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he reached me and his lips touched mine. I completely froze then as something in my chest _surged_. When he tried to pull away, my arms latched onto him, desperate as I was to keep him there. My mind was filled with static, aside maybe one thought going round and round : _He's here, he's here, he's here_.

Then of course, he had to hug me back and the cold came like a punch to the guts, reminding me of the state he was in. So I started fussing and trying to hide it. For the longest time he said nothing, just let me take care of him. That worried me to no end. I prefer my John feisty and defiant, thank you very much. But making him laugh proved efficient and then he decided to ask about my ankle. I made up a quick and vague story and he didn't pry. I let him examine me then settle back in silence, keeping an eye on his features. I could see the exact moment he started questioning his decision to come here. I could see him doubt himself. I could see he was on the verge on leaving again. And something told me I wouldn't survive it.

Once again my body reacted before my brain could catch up – something that only every happened when John was involved – and I found myself kissing him and clinging to him. I did give him a choice, though. I promised him I'd stay out of his life if he wanted me to. And I swear on everything I hold dear – him – that I meant it. But the only answer I got was him cupping my face and kissing me with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in a long time. I hadn't felt it since before The Fall, before the pool, before the war, before my confession. All of our moments since then had been, while pleasant, slightly held back. There was still something between us and even though we never talked about it, we both knew it. For the first time in almost nine years, I truly, fully had him back.

Later that night, as he slept as deeply as I probably had when I got back, I found myself staring at him. I knew how twisted this was, I knew it was very likely that one of us would end up losing the other. I knew it was very possible that some other criminal might work out that there was something between John and me, and that's not even mentioning the Holmes Brothers. But even as I told him as much, I knew none of that mattered as much as having him here. That story definitely wouldn't have a happy ending, but better a few chapters with John that the whole book alone.

* * *

 **Aw, isn't Jim sweet?**

 **You know, for a murdering sociopath.**

 **nerwende**


	24. Us and them

_Us and Them  
And after all we're only ordinary men  
Me, and you  
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do _

Pink Floyd, _Us and them_

* * *

I have to admit another thing to you : some part of me couldn't help but wonder how much of John's affection for me was due to the danger it represented. If there hadn't been so many people to avoid, if our relationship hadn't been a massive game of hide and seek, would he really have come back to me? But then, anytime that part of me resurfaced, the rest of me provided it with a big fat _Who cares?_ I didn't care why he was back and what would happen had things been different. I didn't care about anything or anyone else. Just him, right?

Right.

It was ridiculously easy to escape the Holmes Brothers' vigilance. Truly, I worry about the security of the British Empire. Admitedly, they both trusted John and therefore never would have expected anything even slightly submersive of him – oops – but still, I'm amazed at the things we got away with. The notes in his office, the second phone, the phoney medical conventions, the female dates... Well, that one is understandable. My John is quite the ladies' man, after all. I'm fairly sure I would have believed it too.

I didn't have much to offer John in terms of relationship. I certainly couldn't offer him a future or even a proper romance. What I did have, though, was money and power. I used both to elope with him every time it was possible. He was never one to swoon over luxury or expensive getaways, but I knew no better way to spend some actual time with him and not worry about CCTV or impossibly nosy flatmates. Besides, _I_ like luxury and expensive stuff, thank you very much. And I won't pretend I don't find it funny to see how embarrassed he gets in fancy settings.

He always feels like he stands out, heaven knows why. Well... He does a bit, but in such an adorable way. He hates it when I use that word to describe him – "I'm a middle-aged man, you prick, I'm not adorable!" – but it's true. I treated him to plays, operas, dinners and so on. He would very often tell me I didn't need to do all this, but I could always tell it made him happy. Just like the way I would grab his hand to lead him somewhere made him happy. He never said it, and I never nagged.

Neither of us has ever been very big on the whole sharing-caring thing, him because of his past and me because of, well, me. But let it not be said that I'm completely insensitive. On the second anniversary of Mary's and the baby's death, I took John to wander all around Barcelona. At the end of our stay, as we were utterly _knackered_ from walking for two days straight, he smiled at me and said, "I know what you did, you know." I pretended not to know what he meant, and he kissed me, thanking me for this weekend.

But things were not always perfect either. Sometimes he would make an excuse to come to my house, oftentimes doing it as a surprise for me – which was always _much_ appreciated, believe me – but also as an escape for himself. Sometimes Sherlock had gotten on his nerves or a case had hit a bit too close to home, so he would need to take a step back, and where better to step than my flat?

On one of these occasions, I walked into the darkened sitting room to find John, sitting on the ground, leaning back against the couch, staring at the TV while it glowed, the only source of light in the whole flat. The sound was on mute and I almost asked him what he was doing, but then I noticed the bottle in his hand. The half-empty bottle of scotch. I sighed, closed the door and went to sit with my back against the wall, facing him. I didn't say anything. If I'd learned anything in the occasions when I'd seen John drunk, it's that he doesn't really need a push to spill the beans. It always comes without filter, though.

"Di'n't know if you were coming 'ome t'night," he slurred. He always sounds _so_ cockney when he's drunk.

I shrugged, "I didn't know _you_ were coming."

He nodded, took a moment to center himself when that gestured threatened his fragile balance, then straightened up somewhat. "I've been to Jake Thornton's party t'night. You r'member Jake Thornton? From med school?"

I sneered. Of course, I remembered him. He had once broken John's ankle during a rugby match. No one will ever convince me he didn't do it on purpose. Who could say, though, how his brand new daddy-funded Lexus ended up burning to a crisp the very next day? Mystery.

"Well," John went on, loudly swallowing a new gulp of scotch, "I went to 'is party, t'night.

\- You said.

\- Yeah, well I did. An' you know why he was 'aving a party?" I smiled despite myself. He sounded and looked about five years old. He didn't really wait for an answer before he answered, "He's gonna be a father again. 'is third kid. 'e's married to Brittany Sampson, you know, the bitch that called you a psycho at that party that one time."

I nodded and waited, but he looked at me expectantly. Apparently I was supposed to understand what the problem was. I looked around, mocking reflexion and said tentatively, "Aaand... they asked you to be the godfather?"

He kicked my left foot, the only part of me he could reach, "What? No!" he whined, "Why would they ask me that? They 'ate me and I 'ate them!"

I chuckled, "One could wonder what you were doing at this party, then."

John pouted – the absolutely not adorable middle-aged man _pouted_ – "Stupid Stamford dragged me there."

I chuckled and nodded my understanding. "Well," I said after a while, still not knowing what he was getting at, "What's so bad about Jake Thornton, Brittany Sampson and their kids?

\- Well they're 'orrible people, them. Two of the worst people I know and here they are, both succ- succes- good doctors, wit' their perfect family, their perfect life, looking for all the world as if they'd never emotionally scarred anyone."

I was honestly impressed by the fact that he'd managed that last part without slurring it, but I kept it to myself. Instead, I asked tentatively, "Do you want me to bomb their house? Because that could always be-

\- No!" John blinked owlishly at me then shook his head, "You don' get it," he complained, raising the bottle to his lips.

Before he could drink, though, I had snatched it away and held it close to myself. He tried to reach for it but I batted his hands away, "I think you've had quite enough." He heaved a big sigh and sat back, too hazy to put up a real fight anyway. I studied him. "Well, you're right. I don't get it. Why don't you explain it to me, then?"

John's eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling as his brain fumbled for words, "Well... They get everythin', don' they? They're that kind of people, y'know what I mean? The people who 'ave it all." He squeezed his eyes shut and dug the heels of his palms against them, rubbing slowly but furiously.

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I understood what he meant, I just didn't understand what I was supposed to do with it. He didn't seem to be expecting an answer, though. His hands came to a halt, one of them falling back to the ground while he used the other to prop his head up, his elbow resting on his bent leg. "I'll never be one of those people, will I?" he asked me sadly, "I'll never be one of those who 'ave it all. I lost the army, I lost the surgery, I lost Mary, I lost the baby... Now all I 'ave is you and Sh'lock, an' you wanna kill each other an' then I'll be alone."

He was staring me in the eye, his gaze never wavering. He didn't even seem angry or sad at this point, he just looked tired. His eyes seemed to shine more than usual, and I couldn't tell whether that was from the TV or... something else. "Doesn' matter what I want or how 'ard I want it," he went on, giving me a sad smile, "Doesn' matter how 'ard I try to do good things an' 'elp people. I never get what I want. I never get to be 'appy. When do I get what I want for good?"

I opened my mouth, closed it, then took a gulp of scotch without even thinking about it. I looked up at him, he was staring at the ground, his mind miles away. I crawled up to sit next to him, our shoulders just barely touching. "No one ever gets what they want for good," I said after a while.

He leaned in sharply, hitting my shoulder with his. "You're rubbish at comforting people," he said, and that made me laugh.

"What I mean," I went on, "Is that when it comes to being happy, all you can do is pursue what you want and, if you're lucky enough to get it, hold on to it for as long as you can." I took another sip of scotch, looking right ahead because I knew that if I tried to look at him, I would lose my nerve, "Part of appreciating what you have is knowing that, some way or another, you will eventually lose it. And that's the paradox : you _can_ get what you want, just maybe not the way you wanted to get it."

He didn't seem to register the meaning behind my words – and I'll be damned before I spell it out for him. He scoffed at me, "Oh really? 'ow about you, then? You always get what you want."

I shook my head, "I don't _want_ , John, you know that. My brain doesn't work like that. I take what I need and that's it. There's only ever been one thing in the world that I truly wanted, and I have to live in constant fear of losing it."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking around at me, but I still didn't meet his eyes. "But you 'ave it now?" he slurred.

I finally turned to look at him, and his rivetted eyes made me smile, "Yes, John. I have it now.

\- Tha's nice," he sighed, resting his head on my shoulder and entertwining his fingers with mine.

The next minute he was asleep and I did my best to find a comfortable position without jolsting him. When that didn't work, I settled and resignated myself to the soreness that morning would bring.

Of course John didn't remember any of that in the morning. I told him I'd found him watching TV on the floor and when I'd sat down next to him he'd immediately cuddled and fallen asleep. He was embarrassed, but not as much as he would have been had I told him the truth. He showered, stayed over for breakfast, then went back to Baker Street. I pretended I had something to do. I pretended I wasn't replaying that one thing he'd told me over and over again in my mind : _All I have is you and Sherlock, and you want to kill each other, and then I'll be alone_.

I think that's the first time I've ever felt – drumroll, please – guilty about anything. I hadn't targeted Sherlock once since I'd gotten back, in the interest of keeping John, but how long would it be before we would be engaged in mind combat again? Because it was most likely to happen, and John would be stuck in the middle. It had been easy to ignore those facts, as long as neither of us was mentioning it. But John had, and while he was lucky enough to have forgotten all about it, I couldn't take my mind off it.

That was strike one.

Most of our time together was good, though. It is somewhat frustrating to know that he favors what he calls "the little moments" because really, I'd taken him to the sodding _Taj Mahal_! But he seemed happy, and I felt whatever people like me feel when they don't have the urge to destroy anything. But our time was running out, and I think that, to some level, we both knew it.

First Sherlock started getting inquisitive, which in turn made John worried, then my men – my own men – kidnapped and beat John up. I just managed to contain myself in front of him, but the minute he was gone, I threw another fit and ended up having the whole squad executed. I wasn't just angry at them, though. I just felt like the countdown was coming to an end, and I hated it. I was never really good at accepting that some things were beyond my control. John tried to reassure me that day and afterwards, but I don't think there will ever come a time when I look back on this and not want to scream.

That was strike two.

Things calmed down for a while after that and, while I certainly wasn't fooling myself, I was able to relax somewhat and enjoy whatever time we had left. And even though I kept telling myself there would be a strike three, when it came, I still wasn't prepared.

* * *

 **Oooh, closing in on the big reveal... What did it mean for Jim?**

 **nerwende**


	25. Run devil run

_Run devil run, the angels having fun  
Making winners out of sinners, better leave before it's done  
When he gets through, he'll be coming after you,  
Listen what I'm saying to you, run..._

 _Run Devil Run  
_

Paul McCartney, _Run Devil Run_

* * *

I had taken John to Quebec City for the week-end because he'd told me he'd always wanted to see Canada – and according to Google it's one of the most romantic cities in the world, and God knows John's a hopeless romantic. He really seemed to enjoy the place, so I tried not to complain about the temperature too much but seriously, how can the month of July ever be so cold? I toyed with the idea of bombing the place just on principle, but John was happy so I let it go. Reluctantly.

Knowing the way Sherlock's mind works was always helpful when it came to planting fake evidence on John. Depending on the alibi my considerate boyfriend had chosen – which could vary from "medical convention" to "date with that girl from work no you don't know her no you're not coming" to "none of your fucking business Sherlock", my personal favorite – I would figure out subtle ways of covering up my own tracks. You should see the collection of women's perfumes and products I have gathered over those eighteen months. That time I believe I went for Givenchy.

While John was fumbling around with his briefcase in the bedroom, I was in the bathroom showering with sickeningly floral shampoo and soap then applying perfume and putting on lipstick. When I was done, I called John over. He laughed and asked me what the hell I was doing, but I just drew him to myself and kissed his neck, careful to catch his collar as I went. He complained about it, but I didn't really listen and instead held him against me, swaying in time with the music in my head as the perfume transferred to him. He teased me, asking me whether I absolutely needed to hug him quite so long, so I let go and kissed him hard on the cheek, out of spite, laughing as he grumbled and wiped at the bright red stain on his face.

The truth of the matter is, though, had I known what was to come, I wouldn't have let go.

He took the plane with the lot of tourists and I took my jet. I came back to a frenzy, as one of our most important sources had taken the quite inconsiderate choice to blow his own brains out. Now we had lost a very valuable pawn and really, I get away for _one weekend_ , you'd think these so-called ruthless criminals I employ could watch one little man and make sure he doesn't eat his own gun. Sometimes I wonder what they used to do before I came along.

Anyway, I had to do a bit more legwork than usual and, at the conclusion of a relatively tedious fight which almost landed me in the Thames – it did land my phone in there, though – I went back to my Peter Street headquarter with my team to regroup. I was passably irritated and my men knew it. At least I assume they did, or else I have no idea why they looked like they were a sneeze away from a heart-attack.

You wouldn't believe, would you, that someone that looks like me could terrify a bunch of murderers like that? I must say I take great pride in it. Who's the scrawny tosser now, Carl Powers?

And then John ran in, and the sound of a dozen men arming their weapons and aiming at John Watson is not one I care to hear again. But at least I knew they would never do anything without my say so. John played his part and I played mine, but inside I was fuming. I thought he was going to make some stupidly heroic/romantic gesture, but when he ended up telling me Holmes' men were coming for me it turned out, I was right. Why on earth would he put himself in danger like that? What had happened to our "don't ask, don't tell"?

I did what I did best : I grabbed his hand and ran. I thought we could make it, until Holmes' men decided to introduce sound and fury into the mix. I was thrown to the ground, protecting my head as the passage shook under the detonation. I could feel blood on my chin and taste its metallic heaviness in my mouth, but other than that I was relatively unharmed. I coughed up dust, calling John's name. When no answer came my way, my mind automatically started to count the seconds as I fumbled around for him in the light of his phone – I'd fallen over it, apparently, so it was still working.

He took too long to wake up, at least to my liking, and that's when I knew that this, this was strike three. It was the worst part of this whole ordeal, really. I knew what it meant and I knew what was at the end of it, and yet I had to keep playing the game because we were still far from safe.

I led him out of the passage and of _course_ Big Brother's men were outside to meet us. I could tell John was about a second away from a complete collapse, but I was certainly not going to leave him behind. I dragged him to the nearest station, made him took way more Tubes than necessary until finally, finally we made it home. At this point he was barely conscious, and I could feel his hand shaking from exhaustion in mine.

I stitched him up as best I could, then ran us a bath in which we spent quite a while hissing and grunting as we cleaned ourselves – and occasionally each other. All the while I would throw questions at him, such as : "What are the bones of the hand?", "Who wrote _The portrait of Dorian Gray?_ ", "What's Sherlock's most embarrassing habit?" – didn't get an answer for that one, shame – "What year was _Abby Road_ released?" and so on. His responses took some time coming and were a bit slurred, but at least his memory seemed fine enough.

The minute we were done John padded his way into the bedroom and literally fell into bed while I slipped in beside him, tucking both of us in. As previously stated, I don't like assuming the role of mother hen, so there wasn't much comfort to be had, on my end at least. I was too tired to be upset, but the thought _Three strikes, you're out_ was the last one I had before I gave in to sleep.

I woke up all too early for no reason, but remembering John's concussion I decided to nudge him, gingerly of course. "John?

\- Hm.

\- Jooohn?

\- What?

\- Who's Prime Minister?

\- I will shoot you."

I sniggered at that, and John immediately fell asleep. I looked at him and I could feel the smile actually melt away from my face as I came to the decision. This could not go on. It hadn't escaped me how close I'd come to losing John that day. What if it happened again? What if my men got bolder and decided to bring me John's head next time? What if...?

I sat up and watched him sleep for a while, allowing myself time to dwell on everything I was going to lose, if only for a moment. I never do anything selflessly – if there is such a thing as a selfless act, but that's another debate for another day – so the idea of putting someone else's wellbeing before mine was quite a lot to process. In this case, though, there was no question. I knew what needed to be done. The mere idea of it shook me to the core, though.

Damn John Watson for implanting feelings on people who hadn't asked for it.

When I realized I needed to do something or I'd have another fit, I got up and fixed some tea and sandwiches. I kept thinking of what I was going to say to him, playing out our dialogue in my head in hundreds of different ways and trying to guess which one was going to take place. But in the end John got up, came into the room and we sat down and ate, sipping at our tea as my mind kept racing. _After this_ , I thought, _After this I'll tell him_. It didn't seem fair to do it while he was so desperately in need of food and tea, did it?

When we were done I opened my mouth to say it, but he started rambling about work, then almost had a panic attack about his clothes being found. I calmed him down and tried again, but then his arms were around me and his warmth was seeping through my t-shirt and I ended up hugging him back, unable to say anything that might ruin this moment. This last moment.

I sometimes feel guilty that he didn't know it was the last time we would see each other. I'm sure he wishes he'd acted differently. He's wrong, though. He was still drowsy from the mixture of sleep and painkillers and we could barely touch each other without one of us – mostly him, the state he was in – hissing in pain, and yet I wouldn't change anything about it. Well, maybe one thing. It would have been nice to have been able to have a proper kiss. I also wish I'd been able to tell him the thing I wanted to tell him but without knowing how. He deserved that much.

But I let him go. He had barely closed the door when I started gathering my things and arranging the paperwork I'd had ready for quite a while. Since the moment we'd started this insane, incoherent, maddening, illogical and amazing third attempt at a relationship. When everything was in order, I sat at the kitchen table with pen and paper. I started writing at light speed, putting down everything I wanted to commit to memory. To some people it might look like a list of senseless and meaningless things, but to me it's a whole story. The story of all I had, and all I was losing.

 _Drags his feet in the morning before coffee._

 _Gets angry when someone dog-ears the page of a book._

 _Knows the words to every Beatles song ever written._

 _Spends more time choosing his clothes in the morning than he cares to admit._

 _Smells like Earl Grey, rain and gunpowder._

 _Purrs when kissed on the neck._

 _Complains when spooned, except after a PTSD episode. Probably secretly loves it._

 _Wrinkles his nose when he laughs._

 _Hums classic rock songs to himself when he thinks I can't hear him._

The list went on and on. I didn't write that he was kind, or brave, or funny, or any of that. Any idiot who's ever met him knew that. I just needed those little things, those snippets of who he was. Things only I knew, things that were mine.

When I was done, my wrist ached and my hands were shaking slightly. Before I could adress those issues, though, I took another piece of paper and wrote him a letter. I almost wrote the three words he'd been missing, but in the end I couldn't, even now. I hated myself for my inability to say these words to him, even in writing. God knows he deserved them.

I put the letter in the envelope, which in turn I placed on his pillow. I had left the doors to the wardrobe and the cupboards open, to spare him the extra pain of searching the place to find more evidence that I had left. A quick last inspection of the house found me crouching next to John's armchair and reaching under it for whatever it was that I'd caught glimpse of. I pulled it out and cursed when I recognized John's anti-hallucinogen medicine.

Between the claustrophobia-inducing trip down the secret passage and the explosives and gunplay, I was almost positive it would have been a good idea for John to have something to stop any unwanted visions. I thought about leaving the pills on the table for him to find, but I had no idea when he'd come back there. What if he needed the medicine in the meantime?

I settled for giving him a call to tell him where to find the pills. I would act casual and wouldn't let on what I was about to do, so John wouldn't worry. I took up my phone and dialled his number, mechanically counting the rings and rehearsing my speech when the tone was cut off.

"Who is this?"

I froze, my breath caught in my throat, my mind filled with statics. The voice that had greeted me wasn't John's. It was the far deeper, far more dangerous voice of none other than Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Defective. I didn't know how he'd gotten his hand on John's secret phone, but there he was, on the other end of the line, repeating his initial question and demanding an answer. It took me longer than if should have to snap back into action. I hung up, having said nothing, and stood there staring at my phone, wondering what the hell I was going to do.

First, taking stocks. There was no way in hell John would have willingly given Sherlock this phone or told him the truth, so either a) one of both of the Holmes Brothers had found out about John's involvement in my escape, or b) John has made a mistake. If it was the former, John was beyond screwed. If it was the latter, my lack of response to Sherlock might have been taken for a misdial, or even a weird person calling John.

But either way, my brain supplied oh so delightfully, that didn't solve the problem of the secret phone.

Either way, Sherlock had found out about this phone and would immediately be suspicious. What we might deduce from there is anybody's guess, but it didn't matter because it would put John in the position of suspect. He was good at lying, but how was he going to hold his ground when his best friend interrogated him about his secret serial killer of a boyfriend?

My first instinct should have been to protect John from this situation, or even cause a diversion. But I am a selfish man, as previously established, and the fact is that I couldn't help but think, _Well, what's the worse that could happen?_ I could see it clearly : the awful fight that would result of Sherlock's discovery, the way Sherlock would kick John out of his life, maybe even by having him arrested either by Scotland Yard or his brother's agents.

If it had come to that, I would have been more than able to arrange his escape and, thus newly unattached, John would be able to run off with me after all. I smiled to myself at the perspective. Would it be so terrible? John would probably feel guilty and miserable for a while, but I could make sure to keep him from harm. We could make it.

... Couldn't we?

As soon as that first scenario had played out in my mind, it was chased away by another, the aftermath. If we did hold hand and jump off the cliff together, word would soon spread that good, respectable Doctor Watson was in fact Jim Moriarty's lover. Not only the authorities would hunt him down – and even I wouldn't want to face the wrath Mycroft Holmes would direct at John – but my rivals would also know what to do to get to me. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't trust some of my men not to turn on him, simply because he had helped put their brothers or friends in jail or worse.

If John and I ran off together, there was no keeping him safe. It had been foolish of me to even think that I could do it. It was all too obvious what I had to do : I still had to disappear, but I also had to make sure John was safe before doing so.

Sometimes I hate my logical mind.

I shook myself and looked around, noticing with surprise that darkness had made way for the sun. I called my contacts in charge with the permanent 221b surveillance and learned that John had been seen leaving the flat with a couple of duffle bags while Sherlock was upstairs, tearing the place down in rage. I cursed, hung up and left the house, leaving John's medicine on the kitchen table, knowing he was headed there next. So while he was making his way to my house, I made my way to his flat.

* * *

 **Confrontation in 221b, coming soon!**

 **nerwende**


	26. Living is easy with eyes closed

_Living is easy with eyes closed  
Misunderstanding all you see  
It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out  
It doesn't matter much to me _

The Beatles, _Strawberry fields forever_

* * *

Sherlock was once again in the cruel process of sawing his violin in half with its own bow when I came in. The mess I found was not as consequential as I expected, but the fingerprints of one angry detective were all over the place. One look around the room told me he'd gotten rid of all trace of John's existence. "Do you move that armchair around the house everytime you're angry at John?" I asked nonchalantly, "Or do you repeatedly get rid of it then buy the exact same one again?"

The atrocious sounds stopped altogether, but he refused to turn around. "Get out," he ground out, "I am not in the mood to deal with you right now."

I nodded to myself, but calmly walked up to his armchair and plopped down into it with a satisfied sigh. "Sorry," I said lightly, "But we do have to talk."

I have to admit I was not prepared for his next move. He huffed and threw the instrument on the couch, then stomped up to me, grabbed me by my lapels, lifted me bodily off the chair and tossed me to the side – I tripped on the overturned coffee table and had to catch myself on the mantle of the fireplace – before sitting in his chair, crossing his legs and his arms. "Fine," he said sharply, "Talk."

We were way past games, that much was clear. I straightened myself up a bit, grasping for composure, and grabbed the nearest chair to drag it in front of him. "How much do you know?" I asked him as I settled in the chair, brushing the legs of my trousers absentmindedly.

"Enough," he said, but when I gave him a _work with me, here_ look he sighed and said, "I know John and you have been seeing each other for the better part of ten years. How I didn't see it, though, I'm still trying to work out.

\- We're pretty sneaky. Besides, maybe you knew but you chose not to see. Refused to believe. _Living is easy with eyes closed..._ " I sing-songed, and chuckled when he rolled his eyes.

"I also know he has been lying to me since the moment we met," he went on, then cut himself off abruptly. His eyes narrowed as they stared straight into mine, "Did you arrange for John and I to meet?"

I huffed a laugh, "I rather think that Mike Stamford did that." He didn't seem to find that funny. "I had nothing to do with you two meeting. Believe me when I say it has left me as bereft as it has you." I sat back against the back of the chair, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, "If only you knew!" I exclaimed with dry humor, "If only you knew how many times he's chosen you over me. And he's not even in love with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you're trying to play the jealous card, I can assure you..." he started sarcastically, but I cut him off with a dismissive wave.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just stating facts here. It's not even a choice between Holmes and Moriarty at this point, it's a choice between Right or Wrong. You're Right, I'm Wrong. And John Watson, as we all know, is always going to choose Right." He seemed to actually listen to me, but I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced.

"Look," I said, leaning forward to rest my elbow on my knees, "All I want to know is what you're going to do about our little problem here."

He smirked at me, the bastard, and gave a bark of a laugh, "Is that your pet name for him? How touching."

It was my turn to roll my eyes. John was right, Sherlock was a sodding child. "John never took part of any of my plan... Well, except for that time at the swimming pool, but to be fair I didn't really give him a choice. Other than that, I've kept him out of my business.

\- Yes, he told me about your, ah, 'don't ask, don't tell.'

\- I thought of the name. Clever, huh?"

He huffed and looked away, pretending to be bored. I sobered up and pressed on. "What I mean to say is, what John and I have has nothing at all to do with you. Hell, everytime I got too close to you he would turn against me. You saw it happening. Him attacking me at the pool, him refusing to 'buy my story' at that journalist's place... What do you think it was? He was siding with you, against me. And the way I see it, you shouldn't be angry about it. You should be pleased."

That actually make him laugh. " _Pleased_?" he replied incredulously, "I should be pleased that the man who dared to call me his best friend would go behind my back on escapades with my worst enemy?

\- Yes, because everything is about you, isn't it?" I shook my head and stood up, stuffing my hands into my pockets so he wouldn't see they were shaking. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeming me have a fit.

"You don't understand, do you?" I asked him him as I casually strolled around the livingroom. "Everything he's done all this time, every time he stood between me and you. Have you ever stopped to wonder why I never made any move to attack you since my grand return? Or why, in fact, I chose to return when I did? I hadn't planned to come back yet, you know, I did it because if I hadn't, then you would have died somewhere abroad and John would never have been able to cope with that. Especially not in light of what happened to his wife."

Sherlock, who had surprisingly been pondering my words, shot up to his feet and grabbed me by my lapels again. "If you had anything to do with Mary's death, I swear to God..."

I heaved a deep sigh and stepped back. On my word, that man can be so thick... "Yes, Sherlock. I have the mysterious power of making both mother and baby succumb to childbirth. I sometimes perfom at birthdays and Bar Mitzvahs if you're interested."

I pried my jacket from his fingers and straightened it, much as I had that night at the pool. "Think what you will of me," I said, "But I would never do anything like that to John. Besides I'd worked too hard to get Mary her new life." He was startled by this, but I could tell the surprise didn't last long. I'm sure there wasn't much that could surprise him, at this point.

"You came back after their death," he stated as he sat back down.

I nodded. "I was afraid John might do something stupid." He nodded back, almost unconsciously. I'm sure the same idea had crossed his mind. "While he still had your cases, I knew his mind was occupied enough. But when you forbade him to come along... oh, keep your hair on, I'm not accusing you of anything," I added quickly when he opened his mouth in protest, "Definitely not your most tactful moment, but God knows I understand. The thing is though, that gave him time to mull over all the things that were wrong in his life. I wasn't about to wait around for the conclusion."

A shiver ran through me when I said that and I looked down, feeling the weight of these words. And their truth. "Sherlock, I loathe you with every fiber of my being," I said bluntly, "And I know you hate me just as much. But isn't there a part of you that wonders whether we loathe each other because we're so alike?"

Sherlock stared silently at me, and I chuckled as I rubbed my eyes again. "Sorry, just one of my philosophical ramblings. But the point is, I've been tolerating you for John's sake, and I'm willing to leave you alone for as long as we both shall live. You just have to promise me one thing." I waited but he didn't ask, so I took his silence for a prompt. "You won't report John, to Scotland Yard or to your brother. Whether you forgive him or not is entirely up to you, but John remains free."

Silence settled heavily between us. I could see he was struggling with his decision, weighing pros and cons. I sat back down on the chair, crossing my legs and waiting. At long last, he spoke : "I suppose I'm to take this as some sort of threat. If I turn John in, you'll come after me."

Ah, yes. Always bringing things back to himself.

I shrugged, "I expect I'd be too busy bailing him out and running off with him. And after that I'd be too busy protecting him from everyone else. Between the authorities and the criminals who will have found my weak spot, I don't think either John or I could hope to live very long after that. So attempts might be made, yes, but I'm not sure I could put up a fair fight."

I hope Sherlock appreciated the fact that I talked honestly to him. I don't think I've ever even disclosed that much of my thoughts to John.

For the first time, I could see him hesitate. Somehow, I was getting through to him. He'll never know how much it cost me to sit there and wait for his approval. "He's your best friend," I stated, purely because his silence was getting annoying, "After everything he's done for you, don't you think he's earned the benefit of the doubt? God knows you've never been the poster boy for reliable friends."

He scoffed at me, uncrossing his legs and letting his feet hit the floor with a thump. "Oh, I've been so horrible to him, have I?" he said petulantly, "Is that what he says?"

I burst into a fit of giggles, which only grew worse as he grew more and more indignant. "Look at you, getting all bitchy!" I panted when I could finally get a grip on myself. "I was merely refering to the Baskerville experiment. Do you remember that?"

His lowered gaze told me that he did. "Great thing to do to a traumatised army veteran, that. You didn't even notice, did you? The nightmares, the hallucinations, the tremors in his hand? Or maybe you did and you thought that it would just pass, like a bad cold. I'm the one who picked up the pieces that time. And John? He forgave you, found you reasons and excuses. And how about The Fall, and the two years after that?

\- The Fall?" he barked, " _You're_ going to blame The Fall on _me_?!

\- Well, true, The Fall was teamwork," I shrugged. "If I wasn't a psychopath, if John hadn't refused to hear me out, if you hadn't been you, yadda yadda yadda, we all know that part. I meant the fact that, not only did you _make him watch_ your suicide, but you also left him alone for two years. Do you have any idea how much harm he could have done himself in two years?"

I had raised my voice on that last sentence, and in turn Sherlock raised his. "Well what about you? If you care so much about him, why didn't you stay with him in those two years?

\- I would have!" I shouted, then took a breath to calm my nerves. "I would have," I said again, calmly, "But he rejected me. He couldn't forgive me for what I'd done. Even now I don't think he ever did, to be honest." Sherlock smirked at that, so I added, "He hasn't really forgiven you either, you know." His smug smile faded and he nodded pensively.

"My point is," I went on with a sigh, "No matter what we do, no matter how awful we are to him, John always forgives us. Everything he does, he does to protect us. And in your case, it was even better, because he's on your side of the fight. He likes me, but he hates what I do. I'm sure that if we asked him to choose right now, he would choose you. Again."

I swallowed, giving my words time to sink in. "John Watson is the best thing that ever happened to both of us." I added after a while, "If you can't see that, you don't deserve to have someone like him in your life."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but his voice lacked the venom of a few minutes before. "But you do?"

I held his gaze, "No, I don't."

We stared at each other for a moment, and he visibly saw that I was serious. I smirked at him, but it must have looked sadder than anything else. "I think John always loved to think that I could be saved. That I could get... I don't know, redemption maybe. I'm sure he wants me to be better than I actually am. But at the same time, he loves the danger I represent. I keep him on edge. I'm not entirely sure how big a role that fact plays in his affection for me. I try not to speculate. But in any case, he found himself in an impossible situation and tried to do everything for the best. His only mistake was... me."

Sherlock had been silent through my whole tirade. My hand were shaking even harder, and I could feel that clenching feeling build in my chest. I needed to get out before I went crazy. I got up, shoving my fists back into my pockets and said, in a vain attempt at levity, "Well, you have a lot of thinking to do. I'll leave you to it."

I was almost at the door when his voice stopped me. "How many times have you actually been here?"

The unexpected question made me laugh. "That depends," I said, turning back toward him, "With or without you in the flat?" The affronted look on his face shall forever remain seared into my brain and treasured until the day I die.

I drove to this hotel and let the fit take over there, gasping for breath and shaking for the longest time. All I could think about is that, by then, John must have come back to the house, must have found my letter. I still wonder if he hates me for the way I left. It probably would be best for him, but I really don't want him to.

The worst part is, I didn't leave, not really. I've just been hiding here, one of my secret places that even he doesn't know about. I meant to leave earlier, but Big Brother got his hand on my jet, so I need to secure another one, and the team that goes with it. He's getting troublesome, this one. But I'll leave him alone. And I'll leave Sherlock alone. And what's worse, I'll leave John alone.

Although...

Well, since I'm still here and John is still free, and it was a bit unfair to sneak out on him the way I did... It only seems polite to go and say a proper goodbye before I go. I know, I know, I said cold turkey was the best course of action. And maybe it was. But what can I say?

I'm _so_ changeable.

 **End of Part II**

* * *

 **And we're wrapping it up... But first, one last word from one of our darlings.**

 **nerwende**


	27. Epilogue : Love of my life

_Love of my life, you've hurt me,  
You've broken my heart and now you leave me.  
Love of my life, can't you see?  
Bring it back, bring it back,  
Don't take it away from me because you don't know what it means to me. _

Queen, _Love of my life_

* * *

 **EPILOGUE : JOHN**

I did see Jim Moriarty one last time, about a week ago. I was in my hotel room - didn't want to burden anyone for when I'd get arrested - when I got a text from an unknown number, containing two words : _The Park_. I wasted no time in grabbing my jacket and leaving, hurrying in the snowy wind. I don't know what I expected. God know I wasn't fooling myself into thinking that there would be this great, romantic reunion where we would end up disappearing together into the sunset. Come to think of it, I wasn't really expecting anything at all. I was grasping at the last straws.

I got there, finding it hard not to run as I saw him standing on our usual corner. He locked eyes with me, smiling as I approached him. His hands were buried deep into his pockets. His head was doing this slow sway thing that I never could tell whether I liked or loathed. I stopped in front of him, realizing I had no idea what to tell him. So I stated the obvious. "I thought you were already gone."

He cocked his head to the side. "I had a little contretemps. Besides, I wanted to say a proper goodbye this time." My heart skipped a beat. I had been telling myself that this would probably happen, but to hear him say it was a completely different matter. "So you _are_ leaving?" I asked, hearing the heaviness in my own voice but choosing not to care.

He gave me a sad smile. "I think it's for the best, don't you?

\- May I ask where you're going?

\- That would be telling."

I crossed my arms petulantly. "Maybe I want to come with you."

He shook his head, seemingly amused by my attitude. "No, you don't. You want to _be_ with me, yes, but you don't want to leave London, and you certainly don't want to be with the 'Napoleon of Crime' full-time." He looked somewhere above my shoulder thoughtfully, "I don't want you to take the risk anyway."

I shifted my feet uneasily. "Maybe we can both disappear together. Start afresh somewhere else."

He shook his head again. "And then what? Retire to the country, grow old and mellow together?" he scoffed, "That's not us and you know it. We would drive each other crazy within a year. Besides, when you're as deep into a criminal network as I am, you can't just quit. Not if you want to make it til next week."

I had only been bluffing, for appearances'sake, so I didn't insist. But the knot in my throat wouldn't budge, and the phantom hand I'd almost forgotten about was once more curled around my heart. "Will I hear from you again?" I asked.

He gave me his sad smile again, "For your own sake, I hope that you won't." I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak at the moment. Jim cleared his throat. Seemed like I wasn't the only one struggling to keep my composure. He was just better at it than I was. "Listen, John," he said slowly, "What I wrote to you... I meant it. Every word."

I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. "I know," I said. I wanted to say something else, but his phone chimed.

He glanced at it before announcing, "My plane leaves in twenty minutes. I can't stay much longer."

I took a step toward him, catching myself before I latched onto him and made a fool of myself. "You're not a sociopath," I blurted out. He laughed, genuinely surprised. I pressed on. "You tell yourself that you are, but you're not. A sociopath would not have grown attached to me. A psychopath would not have written that letter to me. And a sociopath would certainly not waste his time saying goodbye to me. It's just a story you and Sherlock tell yourselves because you find it easier to detach yourselves from feelings than to give in to them." I took a breath before adding, with a smug smile, "But that's never worked very well with me, did it?"

He smirked at me, and the phantom hand squeezed tighter. "Sherlock doesn't give you nearly enough credit," he said softly. He crossed the distance between us, now standing close enough for me to see just how shiny his eyes were.

"I'll miss you," I said, lowering my gaze.

His arms wrapped around me and he planted a kiss on my temple. "I'm going to miss you so much," he whispered earnestly into my hair.

I clung to him like a frightened child might cling to his mother. After a beat I pulled back enough to look at him. "Take care of yourself," I said in my best Captain Watson voice, the one he always said was "so sexy".

He smiled and said, "I would say 'you too', but I don't need to worry about that, do I? You have Sherlock, and in the end I'm glad about that. I really am," he added quickly, misunderstanding my startled look, "I can't stand the git but at least I know you're in good hands with him."

I gave him a curt nod, not trusting myself to try and lie to him. What I'd suspected was true, then. He didn't know Sherlock had found out. He didn't know I was in just as much danger here than I would have been if I followed him. If he didn't know, I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him. He was protecting me by leaving, and I was going to protect him by letting him go.

His phone chimed again. He sighed, closing his eyes for a second, "I really have to go."

I nodded, then leaned in an kissed him, letting my actions say the things my mouth couldn't. When we broke apart I kept my gaze to the ground, not trusting myself to look him in the eye. "I love you," I whispered.

I was expecting his trademark "Just you," but instead I felt his forehead gently connect with mine and his breath caress my lips as he whispered, "I love you, too."

I looked up sharply at him, and if his answer had stunned me, the tears rolling down his cheeks finished the job. I swallowed a sob of my own. It was the first time I've ever heard him said that in all the time we'd known each other, and if felt so unfair that it would also be the last.

He gave me a watery smile, his left hand running through my hair one last time. Then, whispering a quick "Goodbye, John", he turned and left quickly. He got into his car and drove off, never looking back at me. Just as well. I didn't want him to see my face as he left.

I stood there long after his car had disappeared, my broken thoughts interrupted by the chime of my own phone. Sherlock. I opened the text apprehensively, but all it said was, _Baker Street_. With heavy feet and a heavier heart I complied. The hand squeezed impossibly tighter when I walked back into my old house and I realized how much I'd missed the place. I slowly made my way upstairs, in no hurry to see the Scotland Yard official and/or Mycroft Holmes I was sure were waiting for me. But no, there was only Sherlock standing in front of the window, still holding his phone.

We stood there awkwardly for a moment, then he broke the silence with a blunt, "He's gone."

I feigned surprise, "Yes, about a month ago, you know-"

\- Don't. Just don't." I closed my mouth. He went on. "I should report you. Tell Scotland Yard, or Mycroft even. You are, for all intent and purposes, the accomplice of the world's most dangerous criminal." I nodded, my eyes glued to the floor. He sighed and walked up to me. "It's not something I can easily forget, John." Another nod. A beat. Then, "But I do want you to come back."

I lifted my head, finally meeting his gaze. Surely I'd heard him wrong. "Why?" I said before I could stop myself.

He shrugged impatiently, "That's what friends do, isn't it? Forgive each other."

And then everything was blurry and my throat felt too tight again. "Thank you," I choked out.

He nodded, lowering his own gaze for a moment. He nodded at the tea set sitting on the coffee table then gestured at my old armchair. I followed the invitation, sinking into the too soft cushion with a soulful sigh. He sat across from me, pouring two cups of tea and offering me one. I took it gratefully, but a thought occured that stopped me in the process of taking the first sip.

"How do you know he's only just left?" I couldn't help but ask.

He said nothing, fumbling with his phone for a moment before turning the screen toward me, allowing me to read a text he'd apparently received an hour before.

 _Look after him for me.- JM_

"I was wrong," he said, pocketing his phone, "He does care about you."

My eyes watered and I nodded shakily. "I know." I stared at my own lap, concentrating on taking slow breath. I didn't think I had the right to cry over Jim in front of him. I heard him shift in his seat before he started spouting facts about whatever case he was working on, and I felt a little better. I wasn't exactly listening, but I let his words fly around me and ground me to this moment, to this place. I sat back, sipping at my tea, allowing myself to fall back into this life.

We've been carrying on ever since. I moved back into Baker Street the next day. Things still feel a bit shaky, but I'm sure that time will help. It won't _get better_ , but we'll learn to live with the things we can't change, the words we can't take back and the people we miss. I still catch myself thinking about Jim and wondering where he is, sometimes. Sherlock doesn't say anything but I know he's noticed.

He always notices.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **And here we are. Not a fairytale ending, but a happy ending nonetheless (kudos if you get the reference!)**

 **Special thanks to AuroreMoriarty, who has been my sounding board throughout the making of this story. That was some John Watson-level conduction of light!**

 **I'd also like to thank Thilbo4Ever, anaisluna312101893337 and I'm Nova for their continued interest and enthusiasm.**

 **And in general, thank you all for reading!**

 **nerwende**


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